


Vivisect

by disordr, firstordershitposting (ald0us)



Series: Blood In the Snow [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Emotional/Physical Abuse, Gore, M/M, Multi, Necrophilia (very breif)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:31:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 100,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8038987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disordr/pseuds/disordr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ald0us/pseuds/firstordershitposting
Summary: Lord Armitage Bathory Hux, pretending to mourn his late father, enjoys free reign over his castle and the villages it commands. Specifically, his tastes stray towards murder, torment, and sadism. To him, sensitive and devotedly religious Lord Benjamin Organa is but an entertaining new plaything.But Ben’s inner conflict only increases as he is torn between his cherished Catholic moral creed and his terrible attraction to Lord Armitage—as well as his own compulsion to kill.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags/warnings. 
> 
> All the lovely beta work done by the talented and long-suffering [horatiosroom](horatiosroom.tumblr.com) ([ao3](www.archiveofourown.com/users/porcelaincats)). [first-disorder](first-disorder.tumblr.com) is my terrible enabler.

Her insides had been so soft. Velvety, wet, still hot, firm to the touch, encased  in blood as red as jewels. He’d slipped his hands inside her, felt her shudder in the last vestiges of consciousness, reveled at the myriad of shivers and pulses the dying human form begot. She had been so beautiful like that—her plain skin made porcelain by the moonlight, her blood sparkling like gems struck by the same light. Her twisted face though, screwed up in agony, had been so foul—he’d pulled it slack once she stilled, gently, returned her precious treasures inside her, wrapped her back up so no one else could see.

Then he’d washed his hands clean of her jewel blood and the transcendence was lost, sickness rising up in him like bile—

“Lord Organa, sir?”

Lord Benjamin Organa started, his hand still furtively curled around his mostly soft cock. “Yes?” he demanded with all the authority he could summon, fighting the heat crawling up his cheeks at being caught in such a filthy position. Kneeling in the dirt in some dingy little tent, touching himself like a common heathen at the thought—

“We’re almost to the Manor, sir. Lord Hux is expecting us soon. If—if you’re ready, sir, we ought to ride on.”

Ben watched the flustered servant carefully. Mitaka was his name, a twitchy little boy with dark hair and dark eyes, no older than sixteen. The very image of politeness, trained to perfection by his mother’s villa. Mitaka had been an orphan in the local village before the Organas took him in; their ward, his cousin Reyes, or Rey, was devoted to him, doting on him constantly. Ben had never quite trusted him. But Ben trusted no one. Not in Spain, where neighbor constantly turned on neighbor, throwing them to the ever-hungry Inquisition, accusing them of all manner of things. If put to the rack, what songs would little Mitaka sing?

The thought was accompanied by an undignified twitch in his cock, which he ignored. “Very well. Prepare the horses.”

“Sir,” Mitaka said with a polite nod, then hurried off, clearly grateful to be away. Whatever misgivings he felt for the servant boy, he knew they were returned tenfold. Yet another reason to be wary.

Righting his tunic and breeches, Ben gathered his most personal belongings, including the long silky lock clutched in his sweaty hand, and carried them with him to his steed, leaving the rest for Mitaka to gather. Their campfire smoldered from the night before, trailing dark clouds into the gloomy, misty air. England, so far, seemed an endless landscape of gloom, treacherous dark landscapes and cloudy grey skies. It was always wet, smelling of rot and decay, punctuated by torrential rain. The dirt, deep and earthy, was always heavy on the air. Nothing like arid Spain, hot and acrid and bright.

England was good for hunting.

Brushing mist off his face with the back of his hand and giving his uneasy mare a quick pat on the neck, Ben thrust a muddy boot into the stirrup and pushed himself up, swinging his other leg over the mare’s back with ease.

“Easy, girl,” he said as the mare gave a low whinny and pranced in place, clearly anxious. By the time he’d led her around in a few lazy circles to work down her nerves, Mitaka had packed the camp and the tent and was saddling up his own mare, a sluggish old pony that was just the right side of swaybacked and liked to eat. Say what he would about Mitaka, but the boy _was_ efficient.

As soon as the dark-haired boy was settled in, Ben squeezed the mare’s sides, sending her into a brisk trot. By his estimations, they had more than a day’s ride if they wanted to arrive before nightfall. They would have to make good time.

Hours passed, and so did the same grey landscape, the drab grey villages, the constant rain. Ben stared out over the endless grey, half convinced he and Mitaka had somehow died and landed in Purgatory. Only the knowledge that he would never be granted such mercy staid his imagination. God would judge him harshly.

And maybe Mitaka, too. Ben had seen him pinch food from the kitchen—tiny amounts, of course, he thought himself a virtuous boy. And Ben knew of the rumors about him and a scullery maid. God, unlike Lady Organa, made no exception for hearsay.

“This is the first town on Lord Hux’s estate, sir,” Mitaka announced once a derelict collection of huts was in view.

Ben eyed the thatched houses skeptically, catching a few filthy figures cowered in the margins, staring up at him with big, dumb, fearful eyes. Most hung back in their huts, the thin doors swishing shut silently as they passed through. This was not the usual, belligerent attitude of villagers—often they wished to sell their wares, or demand some kind of detour to avoid disruption of their town.

“Cheery place,” he commented in Spanish. Mitaka nodded his assent, jaw and eyes tight. His grip on his reins had hardened considerably.

“Maybe we have the wrong village,” the servant boy said, his voice slightly tremulous. The stench of fear in the place was palatably thick—the way a village was in the wake of some brutal war. The animals were sickly, the people even more so, clearly starved beyond starvation.

Ben set his jaw, his gloved hand ghosting on the hilt of his sword. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, refusing to meet any of the villagers’ scared eyes. “They certainly won’t attack us.”

Mitaka murmured something in Spanish—a prayer to the saints. Clearly his fears were not allayed. Ben could not entirely blame him. What to fear was not the village, but what awaited that had put them in such a state.

Some hours later it began to rain, water pouring down in earnest. Ben pulled up the collar of his coat higher around his neck, blocking the cold, howling wind and rain whipping at his skin. His hair was plastered to his face, the water stinging his eyes. The temperature had dropped shockingly low, sending a deep chill through his bones. The storm had riled up his mare and she pranced and tossed her head, requiring a firmer hand than Ben would ordinarily use.

“How near are we?” he asked once it was almost dark, yelling to be heard over the rain now pelting down almost like hail, the thunder rolling almost constantly in the distance, accompanied by bright flashes of lightning. God’s wrath was upon the English countryside with a vengeance—Ben imagined each fork of bright death striking down some consummate sinner and gave a grim smile.

“The Manor is just up there, sir!” Mitaka shouted back, the wind’s howls almost drowning him out. He clung to his saddle like a drowning man, the downpour making him appear even smaller. His usually pristine hair was wild and sticking to his face in black rivulets; his eyes squeezed shut every time thunder rolled.

Ben looked. ‘Just up there’ was a wild exaggeration of their proximity to the Hux Manor, but a towering, spiney shape was barely visible through the dark and the rain. He confessed himself impressed by the size of his place of exile; he’d imagined the Manor would be a dull, pathetic thing. What was ahead was an entire castle, big enough to have a moat and a town—bigger than the sizeable Organa estate. It seemed their distant relatives in England—Ben vaguely recalled his mother mentioning some minor union five or six generations back—were highly placed.

That didn’t shake his deep sense of unease. Or maybe it was just the wretched cold. Either way, Ben doubted he would find anything in the Hux Manor that he seriously could not handle.

He pushed his mare into a quicker trot, leaving Mitaka and his old pony in the dust, mentally reviewing what he knew of Lord Armitage Bathory Hux. He’d lost his father recently, and his young wife some years before that, leaving him alone at twenty-three and in charge of the entire Hux estate. All reports suggested Lord Hux was hopelessly bereaved by his father’s passing—he would still be in mourning. Ben made a mental note to offer his condolences. That was the sort of thing Lady Organa would do. She was excellent at all those sorts of things, where Ben was not.

The journey up to the town gates was a long and tortuous one. The rain had not abated and Mitaka’s pony lost her footing many times. Ben noted the strong fortifications, the difficulty of approach for assault. Clearly the Huxes were not trusting people. Or at least they were cautious. When they at last reached the city walls, the guards made no move to open the gates.

“Who goes there?” a man shouted down. “State your intentions, or turn back now.”

Not a very friendly welcome. It _was_ the middle of the night in dreadful weather, but they were expected.

“Lord Organa,” he shouted back. “We are Lord Hux’s guests.”

For a moment the guard did not answer. Then the gates swung open, torturously slow. They were thick and heavy and fortified against siege. He nudged his mare’s sides and pushed her into a slow trot across the moat, ostensibly left down in anticipation of their arrival.

The town was neat and clean, a far cry from the desolation they’d seen in the villages. Blinding lights peeked anxiously from the windows, shadowy faces dipping out to stare at them. Ben felt their eyes on him and his skin crawled uncomfortably—he felt like he was being watched. And not just by them.

A few moments later a young boy ran out from the Manor itself, running hard towards them through the rain. “Lord Organa, sir,” he panted. “I beg pardon—shall I lead your horses to stable? I can take your packs to your rooms as well—“

Ben looked to Mitaka.

“I’ll go with you,” Mitaka said quickly. Ben made no move to surrender his personal items, but dismounted his mare swiftly, allowing the boy to take the reins. As soon as the boy turned around a young maid holding a lantern and her coat over her head appeared behind him, curtsying deeply.

“Lord Organa, sir,” she said. “Lord Hux awaits you. If you’ll this way—?”

Ben cast one quick look after Mitaka’s retreating figure but followed her hastily towards the shelter of the castle. As soon as he was inside he shed his heavy fur coat to two equally obsequious servants, then allowed a boy to buff off his boots of mud and water.

“If I may, sir?” the servant to his left asked, holding out a hand towards his sword.

Ben’s hand brushed against the hilt. “Where will—“

“The armory, sir,” the servant said with a slight bow. He was blond and handsome, with English blue eyes. Ben noticed he was missing three of his front teeth.

Swallowing his misgivings, Ben unbuckled his baldric and pulled it free, wrapping the belt carefully around the sheath and depositing it in the servant’s arms. He still had his father’s hunting knife in his boot. With another bow the blond servant departed, leaving Ben alone with the maid.

“This way, Lord Organa, sir,” she said with another slight curtsy, taking up a set of candles from a nearby table and starting down a long hall—

“Did you hear that?” Ben demanded, drawing up short.

“Hear what, my lord?” the maid asked, her plain face tinged in fear. The candlelight danced wildly over her scared expression. They were all so pale, Ben noticed, as if they were all constantly having some mortal fright—

Ben frowned, looking around. There was no one in sight. “A shout. A man, I thought.”

If possible, the girl grew paler still. “I heard nothing, my lord.”

Ben shook his head. Perhaps it was but a figment of his imagination. Castles surely made the strangest noises—it must have been the wind. “My apologies. Carry on.”

The maid curtseyed and hurried onward. The hall was lined with exquisitely wrought candelabras and all manner of paintings, many of them grotesque. The martyrdom of Saint John, multiple depictions of Christ’s Passion, the trials of Job, even the death of Joan of Arc, all captured with incredible detail and skill.

Lord Hux was a religious man, then. If a bit morbid.

After what felt like an hour but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, the maid pushed open a set of doors and ushered him through, closing them silently behind him. For a second Ben’s heart beat loud as he glanced around the fire-lit room, full of sumptuous red and gold carpet, heavy tapestry—

“Lord Organa,” a high-bred English voice said, causing him to startle, looking up. He had not seen anyone in the room.

“Lord Hux,” he stammered, trying not to stare. “My apologies, I did not see you.”

He failed.

Armitage Hux was an arresting, exotic creature. He had pale, inarticulately colored narrow eyes and curved, pale lips, his features as refined and beautiful as one of those exquisite dolls the Portuguese brought back from the Orient. He was tall with a trim figure, though Ben imagined his frame was slim and boyish under his heavy tunic and doublet. His skin was as white and lifeless as porcelain, his eyelashes translucent and long, sweeping over his too-intense eyes almost like a woman’s. It felt as if a lump of ice had slipped down into Ben’s stomach—he felt the familiar, awful urge, the urge to entrap, to take, to explore—

Most striking was his hair. Long and immaculate, it was fiery and bright, like an avenging angel’s. Ben could not help but stare—he’d never seen such a color on another human being, only on some fine, exotic animal. He marveled at it openly, longing to touch it, to hold the silky foreign strands between his fingers, pull on them until the other man cried—

Hux’s lips curled upwards in an undisguised expression of disgust. “You’re filthy,” he said at last, his too-sharp eyes raking over Ben’s form. “Are all Spaniards with the grooming of mongrels, or is this an individual pleasure?”

Ben felt his face go hot, shock and shame pouring over him in equal, boiling measure. “I—my lord—I’ve had a long journey—“

“Clearly,” Hux replied, looking plainly unconvinced. “Elizabeth will draw you a bath, I expect you to be presentable by dinner. I can’t stomach the sight of you like this.”

Ben felt a hot stirring that wasn’t entirely anger. He felt his shoulders draw in, hunching down his head like he was about to start a fistfight, but said nothing.

Hux held out a small, gloved hand, the movement surprisingly dainty. A crucifix ring, large and golden and set with precious stones, sat on one tapered finger. For a split second, Ben was not sure whether to shake or kiss it.

He peeled off his glove to accept Hux’s hand, seething inwardly when Hux did not return the favour. His own hand enveloped Hux’s easily. Ben hissed in surprise when Hux’s grip turned suddenly vice-like, his child’s fingers digging into Ben’s like talons.

Then he let go, brushing past Ben like he was some servant boy, sweeping out the doors in his crimson tunic, his flaming head held high.

 

 

 

Ben’s ire with the haughty Lord Hux melted slightly when he stepped into the bath the maid—Elizabeth, Lord Hux had called her—had drawn, the hot water loosening his tense muscles, seeping warmth back into his chilled limbs. The bathroom was a warm, well-tapestried place with a roaring fire, the same gold-red color scheme as he’d seen elsewhere in the castle. He recalled vaguely the Hux coat of arms, a field of red with a rampant golden lion trampling a serpent, had the same colors. Such arms must be high in demand—Ben thought he’d heard a rumor that the Huxes of old had received them as commendation from Richard Lionheart himself.

England was cold, desperately cold, and it was only Fall. Ben found himself already missing the dry heat of Spain, the bright sky, Rey’s sunny smile that could lift even a cloudy day. He shivered and tried to fold himself further into the bucket, the hot water coming up to his shoulders.

Lord Hux was just tired, he told himself. Still mourning his dead father. He’d warm to Ben eventually. Maybe he felt imposed—he doubted Lady Organa had given him much choice in the matter of hosting her son. Ben’s… fascination was no doubt due to his unusual appearance. No Spaniard, or even any foreigner, Ben knew had hair so orange.

He looked so thin. Ben’s mind wondered how he would feel beneath—

Ben grabbed the rim of the tub, digging in his fingers until he drew out a cry from himself. He felt hot with fear and shame—the terrible, wicked thoughts were back, no doubt from his personal devil. Ben dug his nails into his palms, imagining the stigmata of the wounded Christ, decrying his own evil, shedding droplets of his own blood for his sins.

Ben’s cock twitched, heat and weight pooling with startling rapidness down its length. He thought of the long, pale curves of Lord Hux’s ribs, how they’d gasp and creak in his hands as he prized him open, feeling inside, his heat and crimson blood—

This evil was permitted, if only in the privacy of his own mind. Such wicked thoughts fed the devil, let it grow and curl more tightly around Ben’s weak, feeble mind. But kept it from devouring Ben whole.

Ben was only half-aware when he grabbed his cock under the water and began to stroke it vigorously, the evil fantasy spilling out of him unbidden, the demon’s work. Despite his embarrassing splashing and grunting, he only managed himself half-hard, eventually wilting pathetically under his own grip.

Ben shivered, afraid and still a bit aroused. He grabbed the small cross around his neck and pressed the angular points into his palm, pricking the skin and drawing blood. The biting pain unfurled a weak blossom of bliss that skipped down his spine and made him shiver more violently. He bit down on his tongue and tried to ignore the pinpricks of tears at his eyes.

Then he remembered with a guilty start Lord Hux—and probably God—expected him to actually wash, so he picked up the cloth beside his tub, wet it, and began to scrub vigorously at his skin. It burned, but a layer of dirt and grime came off that he hadn’t realized was there. When he was done, the water was cold and held an unattractive dirtiness. His hair had even held chunks of mud and dirt in it.

Stepping out and hastily drying himself off with another, larger cloth, he stumbled upon a set of clothes laid out by Elizabeth and wriggled into them. They were ill-fitting and uncomfortable—too-tight breeches and a loose, unfastened shirt, no tunic. Even his boots were gone.

He pushed the door open, peering out, and found Elizabeth standing outside.

“Anything I can help you with, Lord Organa?” she asked, somewhat anxiously.

“My clothes,” Ben said. “You took them.”

“They were wet, my lord,” Elizabeth returned with a curtsy.

“I want them back.”

Elizabeth gave a somewhat more nervous curtsy. “I’m afraid I can’t bring them back, Lord Organa.”

“Why not? And stop curtsying,” he added with a scowl.

“Pardon, my lord, but you’ll have to bring that up with Lord Hux,” she said, getting very pale in the face. “His instructions to me were quite clear.”

Ben fought back a huff, his mother’s drilling in manners returning haphazardly. “Tell him I need to speak to him, then. I can’t wear this—a boy’s clothes—to dinner.”

Elizabeth swallowed, hard. “Pardon my lord, but Lord Hux’s instructions were clear on that as well. I gave you exactly what he wishes you to wear to dinner.”

Ben stared at her. Was the girl insane, or just clueless? “Then you can tell—are all you English mad? I’ll go myself. Where’s the dining hall?”

“I can take you there, my lord,” Elizabeth said at once, visibly relieved. “If you’d just follow me, sir?”

 

 

 

Ben pushed the heavy, dark doors open and strode through, his confusion transformed rapidly to anger. “Lord Hux,” he began. “What is the meaning of this? I am your guest—your maid stole my clothing and refuses to yield it to me—“

Hux looked up from his plate, pale eyes wide in insincere surprise. “A maid stole your clothes? How insubordinate. Rest assured she will be punished.”

“I don’t _care_ about her punishment, I want my tunic and boots,” Ben snapped. What was with this maddening routine? He couldn’t understand what rules they were operating under—it was, in short, bewildering. Were the English all mad, or were they really as chaotic and disorderly as his uncle feared—?

The expression on Hux’s face melted off, as if his features were paint and it had come off in the heat. “Sit down, Ben.”

“I don’t _want_ to sit down, I want my clothes. And where is Mitaka? He left with your stable boy and hasn’t returned, he has my other things—“

“Sit _down,_ Ben,” Hux hissed harshly, and Ben felt his mouth falling shut. Hux’s eyes flashed dangerously and Ben noticed that his small teeth were abnormally sharp.

Ben stumbled over to the only place at the long table laid out other than Hux’s, feeling idiotic with his bare feet flapping stupidly on the frigid floor, shivering slightly at the terrible chill. As soon as he sat down he noticed his father’s hunting knife was laid out where a dinnerknife ought to be.

Lord Hux gave him a scathing once-over. “Even with a bath you’re still that filthy color.”

Ben flushed, his hand curling around the hilt of his father’s knife. Even in Spain he’d received constant doubt about his nobility because of his father’s swarthy skin. Everyone was fairer, their features more ‘aristocratic,’ more handsome, more perfect. He would hardly take shit now from a rail-thin man who looked almost deathly ill from his pallor.

Lord Armitage sneered lazily at him, clearly enjoying getting a reaction from him. Ben clenched his jaw and kept his tongue.

“Well, are you going to eat?” Hux demanded. “Even a dog knows to eat when there’s meat in front of it.”

Whatever he’d done to get on Hux’s bad side, he needed to rectify it. Lady Organa would not be pleased to learn that he had ruined their least tenuous blood tie to England. Gritting his teeth, he picked up his knife and stared down at his plate.

It held a steak so rare it was quite literally leaking blood. Stomach turning unpleasantly, Ben looked to Hux, where he was greedily sucking the juice from the meat, staining his lips a rich red, long white lashes fluttering slightly. Either Ben was more tired from his journey than he thought, or the young Hux heir was somewhat mad.

“I’m not hungry,” he lied, though his stomach immediately betrayed him by giving a low, loud rumble.

“Nonsense,” Lord Hux said, his voice velvety, his pale eyes glinting with amusement. Ben noticed the long white column of his throat, how thin it was, maybe almost small enough to fit in one of Ben’s hands. “Eat your food. I won’t have your mother worrying on your account.”

Ben stared into his almost faerie-like face for a long while, then took his knife and cut off a chunk. It squelched and tore, the large ring of gristle around the edge hard to cut through—it was only hastily cooked, if at all. He hoped the animal wasn’t diseased, the last thing he needed now was to fall sick in the house of a man entirely soft in the head.

Maybe he was just young. He didn’t look his real age—going by his face Ben would have guessed he was hardly over seventeen, two years younger than himself, not three years his senior. His boyish, almost feminine body supported the appearance of his face. Maybe the responsibility of his father’s estate and the grief of his father’s death had… affected him temporarily. Maybe he was just too soft to handle it.

He didn’t look soft, though. Nothing about him did. His face was angular and sharp and his eerily dead eyes were almost piercing.

Steeling himself, Ben took a bite, spearing it on his knife and stuffing it into his mouth. He chewed as little as possible, trying to choke it down—

“Use a fork, Ben,” Hux admonished, all humor abruptly gone. “You’re from the Spanish Empire, not the jungle. Act like it.”

Ben ignored him, ripping off another chunk and spearing it to shove it whole into his mouth. Blood, or whatever it was, he tried not to think about it, dribbled down his chin, staining the loose-fitting shirt front. Hux was watching him, his keen eyes roving up and down Ben’s body, hanging on all the wrong places. The way he looked at him was not the way Christian men looked at each other. It was the way his uncle Lando looked at the pretty serving women, the way he pretended to share his observations, the way his eyes tried to look at Lord Hux’s slender form—

 _Father, please forgive me,_ Ben thought, and he was not quite sure which father, divine or earthly, he entreated.

“ _Ben,_ ” Hux grit out, “use a fork.”

Halfway through choking down another chunk of squishy, gristly, bloody meat, Ben slammed his palm on the table, causing his silver cutlery to jump and fall off the edge.

He caught Lord Armitage move out of the corner of his eye, far too late to react. His gloved hand slammed down on Ben’s—

Ben yelped in shock and hurt, eyes watering instantly from the pain. He choked on the throatful of meat, alarm and panic shooting through him as he realized it was stuck—he coughed and grabbed at his throat, attempting to swallow—

Hux smacked the base of Ben’s neck so hard he lurched face-first towards the table. He coughed weakly and wet chunks came free, allowing him to gasp for air. Once he could breathe, his eyes still streaming tears, he froze.

“Now look what you did,” Hux’s voice whispered, his breath gentle on the shell of Ben’s ear. His buttery soft gloves ghosted Ben’s face, then gripped his chin tight. “Made a mess and got yourself hurt. Does it hurt?”

Ben managed a nod, his breath coming in hitched hiccups, his eyes stuck on the slim, silver fork pinning his palm to the heavy wooden table. Hux had _stabbed_ him—put a fork through his hand— _stabbed him with a fork—_

“No no no, Ben, baby Ben, don’t cry,” Hux said softly, his English so gentle in Ben’s ear. Gloved fingers wiped under Ben’s eyes, petting him carefully. Icy terror clenched in Ben’s gut—he froze stock still, a cornered animal, unreacting, unable even to blink.

Hux’s free hand carded through Ben’s hair, soft and gentle as his mother’s touch. “You do have such pretty hair, don’t you, Ben?” he cooed, still leaning over Ben so close he could almost feel the heat from his breath. “So dark and thick. English girls would murder you for your pretty hair, Ben. They want it just like yours, except long and beautiful, and they’d wash and brush it every day.” He gripped a fistful of Ben’s hair, giving it a hard yank. Ben felt his eyes watering again, the hiccupping resuming, and felt wretched, like a little boy—

“Unlike you, you little beast,” Hux snarled in his ear. “You can’t even wash it right. You didn’t use soap, did you? _Did_ you?”

“No,” he whimpered. A muscle twitched in his hand, pulling against the fork’s gleaming tines. He whimpered again. “No, I didn’t—there wasn’t soap, I couldn’t—“

Hux slapped Ben’s cheek sharply. “That’s no excuse, Ben. Admit it now. You’ve not been a very good boy, have you?”

Despite his fear, heat flushed Ben’s cheeks. “I...I haven’t been very good,” he repeated.

Hux gave another tug at Ben’s hair and Ben gave a low cry. “But you want to be a very good boy for me, don’t you?”

“I—I don’t know, I—please let me go, you’re—you’re insane, you’re not right—“

“ _Ben,_ ” Hux growled in his ear, yanking his head back, “who didn’t put soap in his hair?”

“Me,” said Ben.

“And who has not been a good boy?”

“Me,” said Ben again, quieter this time.

“And who will be a very good boy and stay quiet while I fix his hair and make it pretty?”

Ben swallowed. “Me,” he whispered. He could feel his face burning, his hands shaking. A fresh tear slipped down his cheek. He wanted to be home. He wanted his mother. He wanted the comforting weight of the rosary in his fingers and the crisp pages of his uncle’s Bible. He wanted to take Lord Hux on the floor and not let up until he begged.

“Good,” Hux said, then pushed his head forwards so his neck was at a more natural angle. Soft leather trailed down the nape of Ben’s neck; he shivered uncontrollably.

“So sensitive,” he said, tangling his fingers gently in Ben’s hair, teasing out knots. “So tearful. Such a child, a boy. Little Ben. Baby Ben. Crybaby Ben,” he sang, teasing Ben’s hair with skillful hands, working quickly. Rey had once clumsily plaited Ben’s hair with her little girl’s fingers, and however Lord Hux was weaving the strands with his narrow, strong hands felt sickly similar. Ben’s gut clenched, a painful lump in his throat, his heart hammering in his ribs.

Slowly, very slowly, his hand closed around his father’s hunting knife. Forcing his fear-numbed mind into action, he visualized Lord Hux’s avian frame behind him, felt the twitch of muscle that would scythe the blade around into Hux’s thigh, the other hard elbow that would knock him back stumbling so Ben could tear free—

Taking a deep breath, Ben _swung,_ driving the blade towards Hux’s thigh—

A shout of pain slipped through his teeth as Hux’s hand caught his own and slammed it into the table. Weak from cold and exhaustion and terror, Ben’s hand uncurled, the knife skittering out of reach. Hux snatched it up, pressing the blade dizzyingly close to Ben’s throat.

He chuckled. “Ben, Ben, you aren’t _learning,_ ” he chided, letting go of the remaining strands of Ben’s hair, letting them fall around his ears. “But if you don’t want me to pretty your hair, I’m sure I can think of something else for you to do to prove how good you are. How about eating your food like a good boy?”

Ben shook his head, turning away from the oozing meat on his plate. Lord Armitage grabbed his face and forced it back, pushing into him until his nose was almost pressed into the raw flesh, filling his sinuses with a thick, terrible, coppery scent. “Eat,” Armitage commanded, his voice sharp as the knife to Ben’s throat. “Or I’ll cut into your pretty neck and make you lick _that_ up.”

“I—I don’t—I don’t have a knife,” Ben stammered, hearing himself whimper as the knife edge pressed more sharply against his skin. “I can’t—I can’t—“ he couldn’t bring himself to say _cut._ “I can’t—“

He could feel Hux’s sharp smile on the back of his neck. “You have a _fork,_ don’t you, Ben?”

“I—I—“

“Pick up your fork and learn your lesson.”

Ben hesitated, his brain frozen, unable to process _pick up your fork_ to apply to the metal tines driven through the back of his hand.

“ _Now,_ ” Hux said, and the knife bit at his throat—

Ben seized the fork by the handle and squeezed his eyes shut and _yanked,_ feeling himself scream through his teeth as the silver wrenched free, pain shooting through his arm as his fist clenched reflexively. He stabbed the fork into the remaining meat, ripping at it clumsily with his unhurt hand, unable to get any purchase. Tears streamed down his face in earnest, his chest bucking and heaving like a bolting deer, his hands shaking so badly the fork scrabbled all over the plate.

Hux put his gloved hand over Ben’s injured one, holding it tight to keep him from shying away, then leaned into the table. Ben cried out, tilting away from the blade, struggling in Hux’s grip—

“Stop whining and use your mouth if you’re too uncivilized to use your silver,” Hux snapped, and warmth spilled out over Ben’s skin, his own blood. Still sobbing, Ben obediently dipped down and seized the raw steak with his teeth, grinding them together to rip off a bite, swallowing and gagging around it, nearly spitting it back out on the plate. But he got it down, feeling his body rebel all the way, then leaned down and ripped off another bite—

By the time he was done, Ben’s front was soaked with blood and juices, some of it his own, sticking horribly to his chest. His body was heaving in protest, no more tears came from his eyes but he continued to cry, wracked with dry sobs.

“Shhh, shhh,” Hux said soothingly, rubbing gently at Ben’s shaking shoulders. The knife was away from his throat now but he could still feel blood oozing from the cut, the lumps of flesh in his throat. “Shhh, Ben. You’re a good boy. You’re a good boy.”

Ben continued to sob.

Hux peered over his shoulder, still rubbing soothingly at his arms. “Oh, Ben,” he gasped, the surprise and delight in his voice hushed, hauntingly genuine. “Ben you’re having _fun._ ”

Ben looked down and gagged so hard he almost vomited. He wished he had as his cock gave a hard throb, painfully erect. He felt so sick, so perverted, so evil, all his corruption on display for all to see. Words tumbled out of his mouth, breathy and desperate; dimly he recognized them as Latin, some Spanish jumbled in—a prayer to Mary—how could he even speak her name with his filthy mouth? He gagged again, retching up only watery bile—

Rage flared up hot in a second and he was instantly on his feet, swinging around and driving his bloody fist into Hux’s perfect mouth. Hux staggered, slim hands coming up to touch where his lip had split, his pale eyes wide and alight with some transcendent joy. Ben growled, feeling the noise deep in his chest, grabbing Hux’s slim throat and gripping it tight, dragging him by the neck and slamming his porcelain skull into a stone wall, hard enough to crack.

Hux’s lips lifted off his sharp, bloody teeth in a feral snarl as he struggled for air, prizing at Ben’s hands and giving harsh, strangled gasps that resonated with his earlier fantasy like a plucked lute string—

Ben’s knees went weak as one of Hux’s thin thighs jutted between his legs, kneading his hard cock with calculated force. Ben gasped as another shockwave of pleasure shot up his spine, a third—

Suddenly the room spun and Ben sank to the floor, dizziness and panic clashing with sick pleasure to reduce him to a trembling, sobbing, vomiting wreck. Then for a moment he lay there in a prostrate state, awash in shame and fear and a deep deep want. With a hot, terrible, surge of shame, Ben realized that he was wet, wet with his own release, like some kind of filthy, wicked animal.

Soft leather grasped his chin and lifted it. Ben’s eyes found Hux’s; he shuddered at their pale _wrong_ -ness, the way his compassionate mask seemed to flicker, as if somehow damaged. Ben startled, jerking away, attempting to scramble away from him—

“Don’t be afraid,” Lord Hux whispered. “You’re so much more fun alive than dead.” He brushed Ben’s cheek with a mimicry of affection, as one might with a cowering animal. “Besides, why kill you now when I’ve got so much planned?”

 

 

 

Ben awoke atop a soft, sumptuous bed, surrounded by peaceful grey hangings. Experimentally, he took a deep breath, the heavy smell of dust and disuse tickling his nose. He listened carefully; he could not hear anyone else in the room, only the faint scratching of mouse’s claws on the stone floor.

The fire was roaring in the little mantle, suffusing the room with welcome heat. Yet England’s chill stayed deep under Ben’s skin, along with a creeping sense unease, as if he were being watched.

Ben opened his eyes. Above him, the charcoal grey tapestry of his chamber’s four-poster spun gently, a light ringing sounding in his ears. It was eerily quiet; his body felt heavy, as if it belonged to someone else.

He lifted his wounded palm, wincing at the pain. It was wrapped neatly in a clean white bandage, the ends of the fabric strip tucked away with skill. It was snug but not too tight. He remembered lashing out and raging as the physician tried to wrap his hand, when the physician finally forced him to swallow a spoonful of laudanum to calm him down.

He remembered swimming in a haze of afterpanic and dulled, fuzzy rage. Caught between reality and the realm of dreams, he had fantasized about tearing Lord Hux and his perfect smirk limb from limb, pushing his fingers into his artfully-formed mouth and ripping out his perfect teeth, cutting apart those sneering lips, tearing out the little bones from his throat—

Ben felt a stir _below_ and jolted out of the shameful recollection of his terrible fantasies. Whatever devil that ruled within the walls of his mind was active again. Trembling with fear and harrowing guilt, Ben fumbled at his belt and drew out the rosary’s beaded length, scrambling down to the hard, cold floor and kneeling in prayer, bead to bead, as if he might find salvation for his wicked soul in the tiny, wrought links.

The hail Mary’s sounded like pagan’s incantations in his mouth, bitter and soapy like bile. Ben gagged, feeling his own wickedness like a thick stench, a physical blemish on his deceptively pure skin. Ben’s soul was like his hair and his eyes—raven-dark and unlovable, even by the mother of Christ Himself. Anyone could see it. That was, after all, why he’d been sent away from the Organas’ villa in Spain, to whatever Godless hell Lord Hux had concocted for him in England.

There was a tentative knock on the door before the latch rattled and the door pushed open.

“Oh, pardon me, Lord Organa!” It was the servant girl from last night—Elizabeth. In the pale beams streaming through Ben’s window, he could better see her plain, open face and wispy yellow hair. Her hands were riddled with scabs and tiny cuts and her nails were worn down to nubs. Her skin was wan and sickly, eyes fearful, never resting on one place too long. “I’d thought you’d still be asleep, my lord.”

“What do you want?” Ben asked, pushing himself to his feet and fighting back a wince. He ought not be so short with the servants, but the throbbing pain in his hand and the dizzy after effects of the laudanum made civility difficult.

“Just to bring you your breakfast, my lord,” Elizabeth said with a curtsy, her hands clutching idly at her apron. Behind her, Ben could see another mute servant carrying a tray.

“I didn’t ask for breakfast,” Ben said, as gently as he could manage. He couldn’t possibly face food again, not with the awful spectre of the last night looming so close. The thought made his stomach churn.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” Elizabeth said with another maddening curtsy. “But it was Lord Armitage’s request, sir.”

Ben felt himself shudder and his hands tighten into fists, shoulders drawing up. His heart hammered wildly in his chest; he felt ridiculous and small and afraid all at once. Clenching his teeth and tipping up his chin he said, “Bring it in, then.”

He’d be damned if he’d let the English weasel’s damnable insanity cow him like a whinging cur. Lady Organa famously feared nothing. Her son would certainly not shrink back from the prospect of food like a trembling coward.

Elizabeth curtsied again and took the silver tray from her silent partner, tiptoeing fearfully across the stone floors to set the tray on the ornately carved wooden table by Ben’s bed. “Are these chambers adequate, my lord? Warm enough?”

“They’re fine, thank you,” Ben said, trying not to imagine what he might find in the covered silver bowls. Maggots? Moldy bread? It wasn’t possible to imagine what horrors the madman might unleash next.

“I’ll get you a rug and some tapestries,” Elizabeth said as she tucked back the heavy embroidered drapes, eyeing the bare walls and stone floor disapprovingly. “Our winters are a sight worse than yours, my lord. You’ll want the warmth.”

“As you wish,” Ben replied with his best attempt at a smile. He realized he still had not moved from his spot as if rooted in place, his arms held tight behind his back. He let his hands hang more naturally at his sides and shifted position. These sorts of things put people at ease.

Elizabeth gave him a pinched little smile and turned almost pink from her deathly pallor. “I won’t be a moment with those, my lord,” she said, then gave another hasty curtsy and scampered from the room.

Ben sighed, making his way to the window, staring out over the courtyard, the expansive stretch of grey stone. Servants milled about, unloading supplies and stocking up wagons, alert guards hanging about at the edges. Ben knew a well-managed house when he saw one, and could not help but be impressed. No servants hung around or appeared to drag their feet. He thought of Mitaka and could not help but be annoyed. Where _was_ the boy? It was unlike him to disappear like this.

A satchel at the foot of the bed caught his eye and he forgot his anger, dropping to his knees. Inside were the rest of his belongings, his clothes and—

Ben snatched the wooden box from the bag and held it close, his pulse thudding harder than normal against its front. Casting about for inspiration, his eye caught a regal bookcase in the corner. Pulling out a few large tomes, he pushed the box behind them and replaced the volumes, arranging them so they looked as they had before.

After he’d dressed, breathing a sigh of relief at being back in his own clothes with his own belt cinched tight over his hips, he made his way cautiously to the tray of breakfast beside the bed. Steeling himself for the worst, or the unexpected, he tentatively lifted one of the wrought, silver lids.

Fragrant steam flourished under his nose, mouth-wateringly fresh. A generous helping of ripe berries lined the bowl of fine porridge. Ben could smell vanilla and cinnamon; it made his stomach grumble. He lifted another lid. Three boiled eggs sat shelled in the silver bowl, perfect and white. Another held a block of fine French cheese, and another hood revealed a full loaf of fresh bread, a well of jam in the corner. The last contained still-sizzling meat, fully cooked and seasoned.

Ben swallowed, utterly confused. Whatever he’d expected, this was not it. But the smell was so appetizing, his hunger so great, it overrode all his misgivings. Setting the tray on the bed he went over to the door and turned the key, then sat down beside the tray and began to eat. He tore into the bread, wolfed down the eggs and porridge, devoured the cheese. Only the meat gave him pause.

He poked carefully at it with his knife. It was clearly well-cooked, and smelled lovely. With trepidation, he cut off a small piece and put it in his mouth.

Rich flavour and seasoning blanketedhis tongue, making his mouth water. The meat was deliciously tender but still firm; Ben hastily cut himself another piece, then another. His father had made the best steaks, but this rivaled even Han’s cooking. He did have a tendency to burn things, after all. Soldiers rarely made good cooks.

And then he was done, all the food vanished. Another knock. Ben went to answer it, tray in hand.

“Was everything to your liking, my lord?” Elizabeth asked, somewhat superfluously, eyeing the empty tray.

“It was good,” Ben said. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth nodded knowingly, taking the tray from his hands. “Lord Armitage instructed the cook personally. He’s very particular about things, you know.” She shook her head, as if coming to her senses. “I brought them tapestries, if my lord is ready to leave his chambers...?”

“I am,” Ben said with a last careful look to the bookshelves. The box was indeed concealed. “Would you have any idea of where I might find Lord Hux?”

No point in hiding forever. Ben knew with a dark certainty that even if he stayed in his chambers, Lord Hux would come to find him.

“Lord Armitage is in the library, my lord,” Elizabeth said with a tardy curtsy. “He’s been waiting for you all morning, if you please. It’s down the tower stairs, then around to the right.”

Ben nodded, then headed down the corridor, admiring the new crop of paintings adorning the walls. Moses slaying the Pharaoh’s son, Saul and his heathen masses stoning a follower of Christ, Judas’ kiss. Ben frowned. Hux did not seem a particularly religious man—on the contrary, he seemed to be possessed by the devil himself. So why the depiction of Biblical scenes? Did he see them as only decoration, devoid of meaning? Or was this some demon’s way of taunting all that was holy?

He was so lost in such thoughts that he did not see the man himself heading towards him in the hall until he was mere feet away.

“Ben!” Hux exclaimed, a sunny smile on his doll-like face, thin arms spread wide like wings. “I’m glad you’re awake—I was just coming to see if you were up. There’s so much to do, we have not a moment to spare— _Mary!_ He’s here, go alert the tailor—”

“The tailor?” Ben repeated dumbly, taking a reflexive step backwards. “Why do I need a tailor?”

Lord Hux gave him a conspiratorial smile, his pale eyes dancing with excitement. “You and I, Lord Organa, are to attend a ball.”

“A ball?” Ben frowned. “As in a dance? Why are we going to a dance?”

“Don’t be like that,” Hux scolded, a pout pulling at his curved lips. “Balls are so _droll_ . Besides,” he said with a slightly more sinister smirk, “don’t you want to meet all the nice English ladies? You’ll be a real attraction. Englishmen are so _boring_ compared to a hot-blooded Spaniard like you. They’ll be swooning all over you. Don’t you want that?”

“Yes, of course,” Ben said, the words tasting like cotton in his mouth. Up close, he could see Hux’s thousands of tiny freckles, too fine and perfect to be natural, feel Hux’s breath faintly on his neck. He forced a smile, tearing his gaze from Hux’s sculpted face. “It sounds lovely.”

“Excellent,” Hux beamed, hooking a thin arm in Ben’s and dragging him down the stairs. The other lord positively buzzed with energy, his whole body animated, dancing about like an Italian actor on stage. His slim crimson doublet clung to his narrow body and made his billowing shirtsleeves look like sails in his stride; Ben sincerely doubted his waist was that much larger in circumference than Ben’s two hands. Ben noticed his delicate ears, the way strands of his copper hair were tucked behind them. His long hair was tied back with a black silk ribbon. Occasionally the soft leather of Hux’s gloves brushed Ben’s hands, making him shiver.

“I’ve been picking out fabric for you,” Hux told him as they went, his free hand fiddling idly with the crucifix ring on his finger. “It’s mostly dark, since you’re so quaintly obsessed with black, but there are also some dark greens and reds if you’re feeling adventurous. The embroidery will be the finest available, of course, and this seamstress truly is the best I have. The cut will be impeccable. Do you have any preference for style? Length? I only want the best for you, Ben.”

He babbled on like this for a few more minutes, so rapidly Ben could hardly keep up had he even cared about the topic at hand, pausing only for breath and to let Ben make a few limpid _mm’s_ and _aah’s_ in the right places. Heat pooled on Ben’s cheeks at the thought of his own tunics and doublets. They were fine materials, to be sure, but had grown threadbare in the past few years. Ben hardly paid attention to those sorts of things. He couldn’t imagine what Lord Hux would have to say about them.

They arrived in the library, a vaunted, gothic affair with stained-glass windows that painted a multitude of hues on the stone floors. Books of every color and description lined the walls, the overwhelming smell of paper bringing him back to his Uncle Luke’s monastery cell, his careful scribing into beautiful leather-bound tomes.

A sumptuous ring of armchairs sat by a dwindling fire, a well-dressed, greasy-haired merchant with soulful brown eyes standing by a table full of tens of colors of fabric, a harried-looking seamstress sewing rapidly behind him, her nimble fingers working the cloth like magic. Behind her sat a still figure, mostly obscured by his chair; Ben thought he caught a flash of dull orange hair.

“Ben, this is Santigo Armadi,” Hux interrupted, pulling Ben forcibly around. The greasy-haired man gave Ben a graceful bow, his deep green doublet glimmering subtly like an emerald. “He comes all the way from Italy. You and he should have a lot in common, I expect.”

“No,” Ben muttered, but no one seemed to hear.

“Is this the gentleman you ask measurements for, my lord?” Armadi asked, his merchant’s French thickly accented but richly spoken.

“He is,” Hux confirmed in flawless French, putting his hand on Ben’s arm. “Do treat him carefully, he’s rather twitchy around needles.”

Armadi gave a polite smile and bowed his head. “If you will this way, _Monsieur?”_

Ben followed his gesture, saying nothing. He spoke good French, at Lady Organa’s insistence, but he disliked to use it. He barely spoke the German his father taught him, either, preferring only Spanish and his almost-fluent English, as well as the occasional written Greek or Latin. Somehow, using all those languages seemed wasteful. Indulgent.

For the next few hours, Armadi and Lord Hux fretted over him, arguing in French too rapid for Ben to entirely follow, endlessly parading fabrics of different weaves, colors, materials, texture, measuring almost every conceivable part of his body. After what felt like an eternity, Hux finally decided on a soft black fabric and a design for silver embroidery, completely ignoring all of Ben’s muttered input.

“What do you think, Mary?” he asked of the stout, rounded old woman at his side.

“Very nice, my lord,” she said, appraising Ben with a keen eye. Ben noticed her arms were braced rigidly at her sides. “You’ve got a right good eye for clothes, I’ll give you that.”

Hux gave her a doting smile, which she glanced away from. “What about you, Ben?”

Ben made a noncommittal noise about not being fashionably-minded.

“Perfect,” Hux beamed, his expression identical to Armadi’s, looking like a proud father. “It’s settled, then. It’ll be ready by the afternoon, I presume?”

“ _Oui, oui,_ my lord,” Armadi said quickly, with another graceful incline of his head. “It is our first priority.”

“It’s, uh, it's t-too much b-black,” said a shaky voice suddenly. Hux, Armadi, Ben, and even the seamstress turned around to see the source, the still figure in the armchair. Ben craned around to see, but Armadi was in the way, obscuring the speaker. “He, uh, he looks like a b-big c-crow.”

Hux’s face burned with cold fury, his pale eyes blazing, all good humor gone. “I thought I told you to _leave,_ ” he hissed, his voice soft as velvet. His small gloved hand was clenched into a fist at his side, mere inches from the long, thin dagger at his belt. Ben admired the silverwork on the ornate sheath, the sturdy artistry of the hilt. An old parrying dagger, he thought.

A blur of motion caught his eye. The figure had the good sense to leave; before Ben could catch a good glimpse of him he’d scampered out the door, leaving no trace but a slight indent in the velvet armchair where he had sat.

 

 

 

”Ben,” Hux said in English with a narrow-eyed smile, his voice hard and brittle. “How about tea?”

“Is this your father?” Ben asked, viewing the exquisite painting of a hard-eyed man with Hux’s exotic hair, impressed at the artistry, the opulence of the workmanship. He resembled the young Lord Hux in some ways, the color of his eyes, the hardness of his mouth, the sharpness of his cheekbones.

“My father?” Hux laughed. “Don’t be silly. That’s my grandfather. Lord Arius Billius Hux. Horrid name, isn’t it? The record-keeper misspelled it twice.”

“He looks like you,” Ben said defensively, feeling his face redden for reasons he could not fathom. He took a polite sip of tea to distract, nearly gagging on the sweetness. He glanced around the walls of portraits, all scowling out at him with the same severe expression. “Which one’s him, then? Your father?”

Hux gave a dismissive wave, his china teacup dangling carelessly on one tapered, gloved finger. “He’s not here. Artist isn’t finished yet. Who cares, anyway? He’s just a dead old man.”

“He’s your father,” Ben said stubbornly, surreptitiously putting down his tea with little intention of picking it back up. “Denying him is denying your Heavenly Father.”

Hux rolled his eyes with stunning callousness. “Ah, right. Don’t tell me you mad Catholics can spring his mortal soul to Heaven, and all that damnable tripe. All for the right _donation,_ of course, nothing to do with your fat cardinals’ salaries.”

Ben scowled. The issue of the Church and indulgences was a very sore one in the Organa household. Han was a great lover of the German Martin Luther and, Ben privately suspected, not much of a Christian at all. He and Lady Organa could argue about the topic for days on end. “A soul in purgatory can show penance in many ways,” he said stiffly, trying to ignore the mocking smile playing on Lord Hux’s lips.

Hux laughed again. It was a slightly chilling sound, somehow, a little too sharp, a little too loud. “Believe me, Ben. My father’s in no purgatory.”

Before Ben could devise a suitably delicate way to enquire as to what he could possibly mean, Hux sprang to his feet, obscenely energetic. “I’ve something to show you,” he said, putting down his teacup with a careless chime of china. “Take that candle. We’re going to the dungeons.”

“Did you hear that?” Ben demanded. The candlestick’s silver knobs digging into his fingers as his grip tightened reflexively around it. A horrible chill skipped down his spine; he could _feel_ someone’s eyes on him, the presence of some other being or monster. Echoes called from every corner: the moan of the wind, the low babble of water, all sounding like human cries. His and Hux’s footsteps sounded loudly on the stone floors, announcing their location. “I heard my name. I heard someone say Ben.”

Hux’s pale eyes rolled in his skull, a faint sneer on his face. “If you’re going to be a big coward, let me know now. _Before_ you go running for Mummy’s apron strings.”

Ben ground his teeth and forced himself to stand back a few inches from Hux’s shoulder. The candlelight shone like fire in his bright hair. “I didn’t say I was afraid. I said I heard my name.”

“Of course,” Hux replied, his eyes glinting with amusement. Ben glared at him; he smiled and started off, confident as if he spent all waking hours in his dungeon.

Ben peered through the musty gloom. Familiar, monstrous mechanical shapes were outlined in the dark. Icy fear slipped down into Ben’s stomach—he’d thought such devices were outdated in modern, humanistic England.

Hux caught him looking and gave a chittering laugh. “Why, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Lord Organa,” he said. An impish smile played on his lips as he noticed Ben’s fearful expression. “Put your mind at rest. They haven’t been used since the dark ages. Unless you want to give them a try yourself...?”

“Don’t joke about such things,” Ben snapped.

“Who said I was joking?” Hux said, and laughed. His crucifix ring flashed in the candlelight, blindingly bright. “Now come, I didn’t bring you here to gape at these silly old things. My collection is much more modern, anyway. I’m joking,” he said again to Ben’s horrified expression, a bit exasperated. “You’re so gullible, Ben. Has anyone told you that? No? Well come along, I think this other collection is much more to your interests.”

A few more moments of tip-toeing through the damp gloom, until Hux took a sharp left and unlocked what looked like an old, abandoned cellar door. “Light the candle there,” he ordered, then grabbed Ben’s wrist and lit a candle on a table by the door when he didn’t comply fast enough.

All Ben could do was stare. The room was filled with relics. Beautiful wrought golden crucifixes, aged hand-scribed Bibles, hundreds of strings of exquisitely-crafted rosaries. Hundreds more texts from the old scholars, some of them lost! Luke would have given his mortal soul to enter this room for just a moment. Ben crossed himself in sheer awe, feeling a state of holiness rise like a warm fire in his chest just in the presence of such holy things.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Hux said carelessly, watching the golden candlelight dance over Ben’s face. “Some of it’s been in the family for centuries. Most of it is my own acquisition. They even say we have a splinter of the cross of Christ,” he added in a confidential tone.

Ben gaped. It all was worth a small fortune. “But—but why do you keep it down here? In a cellar? These should be in the Manor—in a Church—the monks could learn so much, the history alone—“

A deeply satisfied smile twisted Hux’s sensuous lips. His eyes shone as brightly as gold in the candlelight. “That’s just it,” he breathed, his voice so soft Ben could hardly hear. The colour was high in his pale cheeks; his eyes were now feverishly bright, he looked in a state of near ecstasy. “Here, they rot.”

“I don’t understand you, you damnable creature!” Ben shouted, beside himself, all fear forgotten. He gave a wild, furious gesture. “You spend all that gold to buy these priceless, holy things—truly priceless—and you let them mould away! On purpose! Are you totally mad?”

“Don’t you see?” Hux breathed, as if he hadn’t heard Ben’s outburst. “They mean nothing here. All these priceless relics. All these unspeakably holy things, rendered powerless. Meaningless. Out in the world they have enough power to start wars, Crusades—here, they languish.” His eyes flashed, as if with hellfire. “And God knows it.”

“You’re mad,” Ben said, hearing his own voice shake. “You’re totally mad. This is—this is _blasphemy._ ”

“I know,” Hux said lightly, his smile bright. “Don’t frown, Ben, you look so sultry when you frown. Those big brown eyes are tearing at my heartstrings—indeed, if I have any,” he added, tone laced with mocking. He swiped a beautiful gold rosary from a nearby pile on the floor and fitted it over Ben’s head and around Ben’s neck, his breath tickling Ben’s cheek. “Take this and stop pouting,” he whispered against Ben’s collar. “You look pretty when you pout.”

Ben smacked his hand away, taking a firm step back. “I don’t want it. Put it back.” He was breathing hard now; he could feel himself glaring at Hux with unconstrained hate. He shouldn’t be so close. He shouldn’t be so many things. Yet he was.

“Whatever you say,” Hux sighed, a malicious gleam in his eyes. “I suppose you ought to just let it rot.”

Ben hesitated, torn. Then he pushed Hux’s hand away, cradling the delicate cross between his fingers.

Hux shrugged, swiping up a few more rings, stuffing one carelessly on his gloved thumb. Ben recognized the cross of St. Bartholomew. Then he gave Ben a wicked smile. “Don’t look so glum. I imagine your new clothes are ready. Aren’t you excited?”

Then he seized the candle, grabbing Ben by the wrist and dragging him bodily from the room, slamming the door shut heavily behind him. Ben clutched the tiny cross as if it might win him salvation and gave the cellar door one last look before it was swallowed by obscurity.  
  
  
  


 

Lord Hux clapped his hands in childlike glee. “He looks wonderful! He looks wonderful,” he repeated, and Armadi and the seamstress nodded along politely. Hux was practically glowing, beaming as if all his wants in the world had been answered. “He’ll be such a hit with the...ah, ladies, won’t you, Ben?”

Ben swallowed the growing dryness in his throat, looking down at his scuffed boots. “If you think so, Lord Hux.”

“Armitage, please,” Hux said breezily, his hand ghosting over Ben’s shoulder blades, making him shiver. “Oh, you really _do_ look darling. I could eat you right up _._ ”

Ben could feel his face heating. He bit at his lower lip to keep it from trembling. “I’m glad you approve. Is that all?”

“Of course not,” Hux scoffed, and Ben felt a small piece of himself die. The gold rosary was warm against his chest, concealed safely under his new tunic and doublet. “You’ve still to choose shirtsleeves and breeches. Not to mention your coat. And the state of your boots, you savage! I’ll have Elizabeth tend to them right away.” He tapped under Ben’s chin, indicating he should follow. “Let’s see if you have any shirts worth wearing. Mary, please show Monsieur Armadi to the great room. I want to talk to him about that...special thing before he leaves. After you, _mon cherie,_ ” he said to Ben as he ushered him from the library.

A few moments later, Lord Armitage was flipping Ben’s heavy wooden desk chair and raging about the state of Ben’s shirts— _there’s holes! Holes, Organa, HOLES!—_ while Elizabeth cowered behind the bed, furiously at work shining Ben’s boots. Ben sincerely wished he could join her.

“Ben,” Hux said quietly, darting in close and grabbing Ben’s face with both hands, smushing his cheeks gently. Ben was too confused to be properly alarmed. “Ben, are you listening to me? Ben? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“No,” Ben said.

Hux’s pale eyes rolled heavenward, as if imploring the saints he desecrated to deliver him from Ben’s stupidity. “And why _not,_ pray tell?”

Ben crossed his arms over his chest, meeting Hux’s furious gaze. “I’m a knight, not some overdressed fop.”

Hux fixed him with a gimlet stare Ben couldn’t quite hold. “You stay here,” he said, letting go of Ben’s face, stabbing a threatening finger to Ben’s chest. “I’ll be back. With a _solution_ to this disaster.”

And with that he swept out of the room, fiery hair streaming behind him like a flag.

Ben let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, sagging against the old, weatherworn trunk at the foot of his bed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the books concealing his hidden box had not been disturbed. He sighed; Lord Armitage was an exhausting creature.

“If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you’ve put Lord Hux in a right good mood,” Elizabeth said, her attention still affixed to Ben’s boots.

Ben raised an eyebrow. “This is his good mood? I would hate to see him in a bad one.”

“That you would, my lord,” Elizabeth said carefully, but did not elaborate further. Before he could inquire, the man himself burst back into the room, laden down with shirts of every color and description, which he thrust without fanfare into Ben’s arms.

“Elizabeth, take those filthy things elsewhere,” Hux ordered. “And take his old things with you. Burn them. He’ll have no need for them now.”

“As my lord wishes,” Elizabeth said with a deep curtsy, snatching up Ben’s boots and his old shirtsleeves and all but running from the room as fast as decorum would allow.

“I don’t mean to seem ungrateful,” Ben began, watching her go with no small degree of worry. He set the large pile on the bed. “but I don’t think—“

“Then don’t be,” Hux interrupted, again looking Ben over more closely than another man should. Ben swallowed, feeling the hairs at the back of his neck lift. “Where’s your coat?”

“Your people have it,” Ben replied waspishly. “Just as they have my sword, my boots, my knife, and now my damned shirts! And speaking of these things, where is Mitaka? It’s been over a day and I haven’t seen the boy, it’s unlike him. Where is he? I want to see him.”

“Mitaka....Mitaka....” Hux mused, as if genuinely struggling to remember. “Oh, your little servant boy. He’s still down at the stables, his little pony threw a shoe and he’s been overseeing its care. Are you satisfied, Lord Organa?”

“No, I’m not,” Ben snapped. “It’s not like him to say nothing. I want to speak with him. Bring him to me now.”

“ _Ben,_ ” Hux ground out, all amusement freezing over in his eyes, “don’t give me orders.”

“I want to see him,” Ben said, crossing his arms over his chest. He glared into Hux’s icy countenance.

“Coat and boots first,” Hux replied archly, moving over to the trunk at the end of Ben’s bed. “They should have put it in here for you. Ah, yes, here it is. Lord above, Ben, did you skin a wild bear and wear it?”

“A wolf,” Ben corrected, indulging in a momentary burst of pride. “It was very big. I killed it to keep the villagers safe.”

He remembered the swing of his sword, the beast’s wounded cry, the pool of dark blood in the snow, the animal’s last powerful breaths snorted over his boots. He was just fifteen, then. Han had been away and Lady Organa ill with some illness. Night after night the village had been in a frenzy. Ben had seen the way the wolf mangled the villager’s corpses, heard their terrified whispers that it was not of God’s creation but a werewolf. Later, faced with more mangled bodies, they would come to say the wolf’s ghost was haunting them. But Ben took matters into his own hands and headed out early one ferociously cold morning. He returned late that night with the beast’s head.

“And now you wear it?” Hux said incredulously, tossing the heavy, long-furred black coat into Ben’s arms. “In polite company? That’s utterly disgusting. No wonder you smell of dog.”

“It’s mine,” Ben said firmly, ignoring the comment about his smell. If Hux wanted to throw the wolf coat away, he could prize it from Ben’s rotting corpse.

Hux rolled his eyes. “If you insist. Now, your boots are in a terrible state and won’t possibly last the winter, but we don’t have time to rustle up more for you now. And that belt! Terrible! But I suppose this is some kind of family heirloom too? The scalp of your enemies, perhaps?”

Ben scowled but said nothing. Then, “Were those shirts your father’s?”

“His? Please,” Hux scoffed, but offered nothing further. He fished a fine black one from the pile, tossing it at Ben. “Put this on.”

“Leave, and I will,” Ben said.

Hux gave him a bored-looking sneer. “Afraid for your virginal modesty?”

Ben pressed his lips together to keep them from betraying him and turned around; Hux smiled his sharp-toothed smile, by the malevolent gleam in his eyes the expression appeared to be with genuine amusement. A few fumbling moments later, Ben peeled off the excessively fitted doublet and tunic, his face hot as he felt Hux’s eyes rake over his back.

“Stop looking,” Ben mumbled, then quickly added, “It’s rude to stare.”

He started as he felt soft leather skate over his skin, tracing the thin scars mapped over his back like the rivers of Europe. Ben shivered, sidling away, picking up the shirt off the bed and throwing Hux a glare.

“I’m not looking,” Armitage said innocently, and indeed when Ben turned to look his pale lashes were drawn down low over his eyes. In the same sweet tones he asked, “Do you wear a cilice too? Good Catholic boy like you.”

“None of your  concern,” Ben growled, then struggled into the shirtsleeves as fast as he could, fitting the tunic and doublet over it with effort. “Are you satisfied? May I have my boots back now?”

“Delighted,” Hux replied, mockery heavy in his voice. “Let’s see how far that lazy wretch Elizabeth has gotten with them.”

Elizabeth was done when they found her, and she presented Ben with his boots with a deep curtsy, cringing from them all the while, then all but ran away from her master’s presence as soon as she was dismissed. The blonde boy with missing teeth replaced her, stooping into a low bow. “My lord, the carriage is ready, if my lord pleases to leave now,” he said to Hux’s boots.

Hux waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want the carriage. Lord Organa and I will ride on our own. Tell Matthew to ready Matilda.”

“Matilda?” Ben repeated as the blonde boy bowed and retreated, ostensibly to inform the stable hand.

“My horse, Ben,” Armitage snapped, as if Ben were a complete imbecile. To Ben’s disbelieving gaze, he said, “What?”

“Matilda,” Ben repeated again, barely hiding a smile as he struggled into his boots.

Hux flushed a fine shade of pink. “What’s wrong with her name? It’s a right sight better than yours. What do you call _your_ horse, anyway? Doombringer? Shadeslayer? Deathbiter?”

Ben couldn’t conceal a chuckle. “I call her Esparanza,” he said. “It means hope.”

“That’s very nice, Ben. Were you twelve?”

“My cousin Reyes named her. She was ten. The name stuck.” He remembered Mitaka and his humor evaporated. “Now bring me to Mitaka. You said you would.”

“Patience, Ben,” Hux said, giving Ben a maddening little smile that on a woman would have been flirtatious. Then the smile faded, replaced by near-genuine regret. “We may have to leave soon to arrive in time. But you have my word: you will be reunited with little Mitaka when we return.”

Ben knotted his arms over his chest. “I accept your word. And I’ll hold you to it.”

Hux clapped him on the arm, the strange smile returning. “Thank you, Ben. Now let’s go to the courtyard. Matthew is waiting.”  
  
  
  
  


Matilda was a pure white mare, tall and slim and majestic. Her wild pale eyes were rimmed with black and fine, white lashes; her mane and tail were silky and beautiful. When she saw her master she let out a gentle whinny and curved her graceful neck to accept his caress.

“She’s beautiful,” Ben said, and meant it. She was as pale and ethereal as a ghost. Her immaculately polished saddle and bridle were studded with tasteful silver; she was the steed of a king.

“She is,” Armitage agreed, and pressed a soft kiss to her downy muzzle. He murmured a few soft things in her ear, stroking her neck, then snatched the reins from the blonde, curly-haired stable boy’s hands and rounded to the stirrup and mounted with ease. “She’s worth all the people in this miserable village.”

To Ben he said, “Shall we?”

Ben gave a sharp nod, nudging Esperanza into motion. She gave an anxious whinny and pranced forwards, bridling as Ben pulled back on the reins. Matilda floated behind her, silent as a phantom. Ben could not shake a deep sense of foreboding; again, he felt as if he were being watched. _Ben,_ the very trees seemed to whisper, groaning and murmuring in the wind. _Ben, beware._

Ben looked to the grey heavens dotted with heavy, dark clouds and muttered a short prayer.

Esparanza calmed some moments later, allowing Matilda to settle in beside her. Ben glanced over at Armitage; he wore a look of grim satisfaction, every aspect of his dress immaculate. He faced forwards as if Ben were not even there, apparently lost in thought. Ben wondered where his thoughts wandered. “Who is hosting the ball?” he asked.

Hux turned his way as if just remembering he was there. “Lord Devan,” he said, pale eyes still appearing faraway. “His lands are just beside mine. Knowing him, he’s invited our kind the realm over.” He offered Ben a pensive smile. “Do you think it will rain?”

Ben blinked, thrown by the change of topic. “Possibly. I’m a stranger to English weather.”

Hux hummed thoughtfully, craning his neck to look up at the sky. “There’s a storm front headed this way. Shall we increase the pace? Matilda doesn’t like the mud.”

 

 

 

Ben nodded, and soon Matilda and Esparanza were trotting briskly down the dusty road, Ben admiring the famed quaint English countryside. It was lush and bountiful, the crops dewy with the previous night’s rain, full of beautiful trees and babbling brooks. The few peasants they encountered eyed them fearfully or even fled from them; Armitage’s face was as expressionless as if he’d been carved from flawed marble. The wind buffeted them, whipping up their hair and blowing dirt and leaves and dust into their eyes.

“I think the storm’s coming,” Ben shouted, barely audible above the rustling trees and bushes and the whispers of the waving wheat. “We should hurry.”

“Lord Devan’s lands aren’t far from here,” Hux said calmly. Both he and Matilda were eerily calm, unbothered by the weather, the white horse floating onwards as if she were under a spell. Esparanza halted and shied away from the winds, dark eyes wide and wild with terror. Ben pulled hard on the reins, cursing in Spanish, earning an amused glance from Lord Armitage.

“She doesn’t want to go,” Ben explained, refusing to be baited by Hux’s derision. “Maybe she’s right—maybe we ought to turn back—“

Hux rolled his pale eyes, that ever-present sneer deepening. “So superstitious, Lord Organa. Do you not trust the Lord to deliver you from any ill the English countryside can throw at you?”

Ben bit his lip to keep from lashing back at the mockery. Still, Hux had a point. The nagging doubt tugging at his gut was his own human shortcoming—he ought to have faith. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Hux offered him a thin smile, then urged Matilda onward with a soft touch. Esparanza followed more willingly, Matilda’s white mane floating in front of them like a cloud.

“Does it do anything here but rain?” Ben demanded, shaking the droplets from his hair and patting Esparanza down before a servant led her and Matilda away to the stables. Lord Hux had been very explicit in threatening the stable boy with what would be done to him should he in any way harm his precious horse—“I’ll have you gelded” might have been too punitive. The poor boy fairly shook with terror.

“Occasionally it snows,” Hux replied carelessly, then fixed the stable boy with another gimlet stare as he accepted Matilda’s reigns.

Ben muttered a quick thanks and pushed a small coin into the boy’s hand. “What a fine country.”

Hux smoothed down the crown of his shining hair, tangling his gloved fingers through his neatly fastened ponytail. “My apologies, Lord Organa, but if the price to pay for avoiding your lovely Inquisition is a bit of rain, it’s one I shall gladly pay.”

Ben scowled. Was that the only argument he could make? “That isn’t fair. The Church in England has problems of its own.”

Hux gave a silver laugh. “Of course it does. You don’t see me defending it, do you? You’re the one clutching your rosary like a baby’s blanket.” He caught sight of Ben’s scowl and pressed a strong hand to Ben’s arm. “Let’s not bicker on such things. We’re here to enjoy ourselves, are we not?”

Ben frowned. “I suppose so.”

Hux beamed his childish smile, bright and self-absorbed. “Excellent. Come, let’s find Lord Gervaise Devan, our host—you’ll want to meet him, I’m sure. A true English gentleman.” He gripped one of Ben’s wrists and yanked, setting off with long strides, dark crimson cloak billowing behind him, heeled boots clicking on the flagstones. In the lamplight the gold embroidery on his doublet and cloak burned like his hair; Ben caught his breath and followed at an undignified trot in Hux’s wake.

Lord Devan’s manor was lit up most spectacularly, the great hall that the front oaken doors opened into was adorned with hundreds of candles, all flickering and sparkling, throwing light into even the darkest corners. Ladies in splendid gowns and lords in bright brocades, wine flowing like water, a team of musicians playing a flowing rendition of a popular waltz. Ben, from a distinctly rural territory, had to marvel at it all.

Hux caught him staring and smiled, giving his arm a soft tug. “Come. You can see it all later. Lord Devan is waiting.”

A few moments later Hux had navigated the crowd with a series of fluid pardons and murmured questions as to Lord Devan’s whereabouts. Where he cut through the crowd like a swan through water Ben jostled, elbowed, and otherwise accidentally bustled the gaily-dressed lords and ladies, apologizing copiously all the way.

“Lord Devan, a pleasure,” Hux said, offering a stern grey-haired man a distinctly vacuous smile and his gloved hand. Devan accepted it, his own large, calloused hand dwarfing Armitage’s. Ben recognized in his hand the way a sword wears down the palm and felt his respect for the man rise—he was obviously a Knight, something Hux had not mentioned. Ben searched his face, avoiding his eyes, taking in his rough-cut beard and steely grey eyes, one of which was milky-white with an old wound. A light scar trailed up towards his scalp and almost curled hair, which fell nearly to his shoulders. His posture was relaxed and rangy, his keen eyes did not seem to miss a single detail.

When he turned his attention fully to Lord Hux his thin lips curled just so in an expression of disgust, his gaze catching on the string of gaudy crosses around the younger man’s neck and shoulders. “The pleasure is all mine, Lord Hux,” he replied gruffly, letting go of Armitage’s hand just a shade too early. Ben liked him immediately. “Is this Lord Organa?”

“Yes, the same,” Hux said brightly, giving Ben a doting look. “Lady Leia Organa’s son, from Spain.”

“Welcome, Lord Organa,” Devan said gravely, his low voice gravelly. He shook Ben’s hand with a firm grip and small incline of his head. “I hope England has not given you too cold—or rainy—a welcome.” To Hux, he said, “I trust you have met Lord and Lady Wykeham? They join us all the way from London.”

“Lovely,” Hux beamed, his gaze raking up and down Lord Wykeham’s soft body and expression, his sweaty, nervous palms. “Lord Wykeham, you _must_ tell me the name of your milliner. Their craft looks simply wonderful on Lady Wykeham.”

Wykeham opened his mouth to stammer out his happy reply when Devan interrupted, taking him by the arm. “Later, I’m sure. Lord Wykeham has yet to meet the Bishop Alcinus. You understand.”

“Of course,” Hux replied, with a charming smile. “Until later, Lord Wykeham. Lady Wykeham.” Then after kissing the lady’s hand and giving the lord a sly glance through his lashes, he swept around and set off without a further word, all but dragging Ben in his wake.

“Self-righteous cock,” Hux muttered, his talon-like fingers tightening painfully around Ben’s wrist. “Thinks he owns the place, doesn’t he? Hasn’t met Bishop Alcinus—my arse—“

“I think he _does_ actually own the place,” Ben pointed out, following Lord Devan with his eyes before giving up and letting Hux drag him across the ballroom.

“Don’t be obtuse, Organa. He acts like he owns the whole of England, not this dingy fur-trapping hole he calls a castle.” He aimed a particularly useless sneer the graying Lord’s way, righting his heavy crimson cloak over his shoulders. He frowned. “Ben, your hair’s a mess.” He reached up and before Ben could jerk away smoothed his hair away from his face, the tiny pink tip of his tongue trapped between his lips as he arranged Ben’s hair around his face.

“I’m fine,” Ben said, brushing his hands away, feeling his face become very hot. Hux’s ring brushed his ear and he tried not to shiver.

Hux shrugged, letting go. “It’s your own choice to look ridiculous.”

Ben kept getting warmer until a short but elegant man appeared by his side and stole Hux’s attention away.

“My lord,” the new man said with an obsequious bow. “There are some new, ah,” he paused and threw an unreadable look Ben’s way, “...items available that I thought might pique your interest.”

Armitage gave him a cool smile and took his arm confidentially in his. “You have my thanks. Shall we...?”

The two started away, arm in arm, speaking so softly that even the soft babble of the crowd covered their words. Ben watched them go with a faltering spark of abandonment, trying hard not to feel pathetic. It was Lord Hux’s fault for being a neglectful host. Ben accepted a glass of dark wine from a passing servant and took a sip, scanning the hall for a place to escape or hide himself away.

“Lord Organa. My apologies, I’ve shirked my duties as a host.”

Ben turned in surprise, nearly spilling wine onto himself. “Lord Devan,” he said, hearing his damnable accent slip back in, as it often did when he was taken aback. “I didn’t see you—my apologies—“

“No apology necessary,” Devan said in his grave voice, gracing Ben with a slight smile that only touched his one good eye, the scarred one remaining clouded with storm. Ben must have been staring, because he added, “It is off-putting to some. I thought I would be among old friends—I regret not wearing a band—“

“No, no, not that,” Ben stammered, feeling hotly ashamed. “No, pardon me—I just—I haven’t met an English knight before. I was not sure what to expect.”

Devan’s thin lips curled in a half-smile. “Ah. I have the tendency to assume. Well, I can no longer say I am the most impressive English specimen, but I hope I represent us well nonetheless.” His expression clouded a for a second, then abruptly cleared. “Shall I introduce you to the gentlemen and ladies?”

“You have my thanks, but I must decline,” Ben said, then immediately regretted it. He added quickly, as if for himself, “Lord Hux is to do that in a moment.”

“Ah,” Devan said, looking unconvinced, his one iron eye finding the shining orange hair in the crowd and eyeing it with distrust. “Lord Hux indeed.” He straightened his gloves idly on his hands, not meeting Ben’s eyes. “Tempestuous young man, is he not?”

“Very,” Ben replied carefully, feeling his stomach twist. He felt the rosary under his tunic, hard and warm. What should he say, if anything at all? Could he trust Lord Devan? He felt he could, but his mother always warned that trust should always be supported with verification. He bowled on anyways. “Actually—“

“Gervaise,” a voice said, impatient. Ben and Devan turned—Devan smiled and embraced the white-clad man in rich Bishop’s garb. Ben noticed the fur of a ermine and rich embroidery and jewels that did not suit the ascetics of the Church with an edge of disapproval. His Uncle Luke would not have hid his disapproval at all.

“Alcinus,” Devan said once he had ended the one-sided embrace. To Ben, he said, “Bishop Alcinus Devan, my uncle. He runs all the local parishes near these lands.” To the Bishop, he said, “My thanks for coming. I did not expect to see you here so late.”

Alcinus Devan gave a pinched, cold smile that did not seem to fit with his thin, too-smooth face. His eyes were light grey unlike his nephew’s—he was old, unweathered and pampered, his light grey eyes staring out from a too-knowing face like an owl’s. Ben knew instantly that he was more worldly a man than his Knight nephew. “May I speak to you, Gervaise?” He eyed Ben coldly. “Alone, if possible.”

Devan inclined his head Ben’s way. “My apologies, Lord Organa. I shall find you after our conversation is done.”

And then he was gone. Ben swallowed the lump in his throat and willed the fluttering panic in his chest to abate. He had been so close to speaking unwisely—he must guard himself from another moment of such weakness again.

Hux was nowhere to be seen. Ben slipped through the crowd like a wraith, occasionally drawing curious glances for his unusual color. He ignored them all, pushing through a walkway into a near-deserted hall, dropping down onto a ornately carved stone bench.

He felt so alone. He thought of Rey, of her bright eyes and wise words—wiser than her age, by far—and his mother, her strong, proud smile. He thought of his uncle, bent over his books, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes that the years could not quite tame. He thought even of his father, a half-remembered and blurry face, embellished by years of stories until it was nothing but a caricature of a lopsided smirk.

For what felt like hours he sat there, desperate for human company, wanting nothing but to be left alone. England felt large, cold, and foreign—he longed for Spain, the familiar contours of his home lands, the clever game and unruly villagers, the boring farmlands and forests.

He wanted home.

Lord Devan never sought him out, he noticed bitterly. Lord Hux had been gone a long time—a quiet part of him whispered cruelly that he had left him behind as a burden.

“Ben? Ben, what are you doing out here all alone? It took me an age just to find you.”

Hux’s voice, annoyed and—Ben thought he might have dreamed—concerned. The man himself appeared seconds later, a swirl of constant motion and heavy, billowing cloak. “Ben? Are you well? Do you need to eat?”

“I’m well,” Ben said quickly, feeling a fierce wave of gratitude to see a familiar face. He shivered; the castle was cold, and he had been sitting motionless for too long—

“Poor thing,” Armitage murmured, brushing a gloved thumb under Ben’s jaw. He undid the golden clasp at his throat and shelled off his cloak, wrapping it over Ben’s shoulders. It did not quite fit well and would not close over his shoulders, but Ben huddled gratefully into it nonetheless.

Armitage looked him over critically, re-arranging his hair once more, then held out his hand with an arch, playful smile. “Shall we dance, my Lord? If it is your pleasure, of course.”

“Dance?” Ben stammered. “I—as partners?”

Hux looked around them theatrically. “Do you see any buxom ladies throwing themselves at us for our hand?”

Ben looked. He saw no one but drunkards and empty suits of armor. “No,” he admitted.

“Then there is your answer.” Hux said primly, then pulled down his full bottom lip. “Am I not beautiful enough for you, Ben?”

Ben blushed, not trusting himself to answer. He took Armitage’s small hand hastily, before he could say anything more. “I’m not very good,” he blurted, so that he would not say anything else.

Armitage patted his arm fondly, a sharp smile on his lips. “Do as I say, and there won’t be a problem.”

  
  
  


 

“Put your hands on my waist,” Hux ordered.

Ben blinked. “What?”

“Are you hard of hearing? I said put your idiot hands on my waist.”

“I heard what you said,” Ben snapped. “I just...” Here he blushed again. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Would you rather I put my hands on _your_ waist?” Hux countered. Ben rapidly shook his head no; Hux gave the satisfied smile of a fox with a fat pellet in its mouth and draped his arms around Ben’s shoulders. A slow waltz struck up; Ben muttered a quick prayer and reached hesitantly for the other man’s waist.

Armitage was shockingly soft, his waist delicate and slim in Ben’s hands. Ben’s hold fluttered, his lungs suddenly seizing. Such an indecent dance, the waltz—and with another _man—_

“Shh,” Armitage breathed, doing absolutely nothing to still Ben’s panic. Ben mopped his palms surreptitiously on his breeches and returned them to Hux’s waist, gaze darting side to side, vigilant for any sign that the lords and ladies around them had taken notice.

Ben felt Armitage’s toes under his own and yelped, pulling back, face hot with shame. “I _am_ awful, I told you—I don’t dance much—I apologize—“

“Nonsense,” Hux scolded, and Ben fell silent immediately. “Watch my steps and follow my lead. This is not a difficult dance.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Banned by the Church in the Germanic states, I hear.”

To Ben’s horrified expression he added, “For the peasants, of course. Pagans, the lot of them. We of higher breeding can be trusted, I suppose.”

Ben thought he detected a trace of mocking in Armitage’s voice, but let it go. “Do you do this often?”

“Do what often?” Armitage asked with his irreverent smile. “Dance a waltz, or dance with a man?”

At the last Ben had sudden thoughts of Armitage’s slim form pressed into the arms of other men and could not stop himself from scowling. “I—I mean, all of it.”

Hux watched his expression carefully, keen eyes roving over Ben’s face as if trying to read his very thoughts. “Not often,” he admitted softly, his breath warm on Ben’s cheek. “I fear I haven’t left the manor very often lately. My father’s death, you know,” he added, sounding wholly insincere. “Maybe we should. It’s a pity, is it not? To have such things in the world and not visit them? Let us go to Paris, Ben. You would like Paris.”

“Paris?” Ben repeated dumbly, nearly stumbling over his own feet. “France is degenerate. We cannot go there—“

“Of course we can,” Armitage purred, twining his arms around the back of Ben’s neck. His pale eyes were shining with excitement, the colour high in his prominent cheeks. “We can do anything, Ben. Anything we want.”

Ben thought longingly of all the stories Han had told him as a boy, of all his adventures in Germany as a young scoundrel. Europe always sounded so dashing through Han’s words, he thought, wretched and villainous but not without virtue and chivalry. “Anything?”

They spun suddenly and Ben clung to him more tightly, dizzy and off-balance. When the world came to rights again he found Hux’s slim body pressed against him in his arms, tantalizingly close and unresisting. Dizzily Ben stared at his parted lips, soft and full, felt his heartbeat fluttering in his chest like a bird’s.

“Anything,” Armitage breathed, and for one heady moment Ben believed him—

“Lord Organa?”

Ben jolted, as if waking from a bewitching dream. “Lord Devan,” he said, disoriented, blinking as if from sleep. “My apologies—I did not see you—“

“Clearly,” Devan said. His iron eye flicked over him with disapproval that bordered on disgust; Ben immediately disentangled himself from Armitage and stepped back, feeling almost sick. “If you and Lord Hux are… finished, I shall introduce you to the others present.”

“You have my thanks,” Ben said, bowing his head and swallowing down the acid in his throat. He avoided both Devan and Hux’s eyes, feeling both their gazes burning into him.

Ben fidgeted at his sides, hating his own nervousness. Lord Devan had not spoken except to introduce him to various couples of lords and ladies, and to point out guests not worthy of their individual attention. Did he think—could he suspect—

“Lord Organa… Benjamin,” Devan said suddenly, coming to a halt at one of the peripheries of the ballroom, his gravelly voice uncharacteristically halting. He looked as if he were about to put his hand on Ben’s shoulder, but thought better of it. “May I offer you a piece of advice? In confidence, of course.”

“Of course,” Ben repeated, feeling the needle-like prickles of sweat breaking out over his shoulders and chest. “I welcome all counsel.”

Devan grimaced briefly, his steely eye flickering over the crowd as if to make sure they were not being watched. He said in an undertone, “If you will pardon the indiscretion, Lord Hux has somewhat of a… reputation.”

“A reputation?” Ben parroted. The sweat was now prickling his back, his arms, unbearably hot. An invisible band had tightened around his chest, painfully tight.

“A reputation,” Devan confirmed. He looked awkward, uncomfortable, at odds with himself; one weathered hand worried the hilt of his dagger. “I trust you find his behavior unusual, in the least.”

“Quite,” Ben said, then added quickly, “but I thought it all more a quirk than a true danger.”

“And therein lies the danger,” Devan said lowly. “I apologize for speaking ill of your host, Lord Organa. But I feel a duty to you, as a father to a son. Do not let yourself be led astray by Lord Hux. The devil takes many forms, Benjamin, and none of them more seductive than his.”

Ben swallowed. Felt his throat tighten, almost so that he could not speak. “I’m not sure I take your meaning, sir.”

Devan lowered his voice further, his stormy eyes boring into Ben’s own. “Lord Armitage was deeply affected by the death of his father, the late Lord Brendol. His behavior since has been… strange, if rumors are to believed. There are fears among us that he may not be fit to govern his dominion. I advise you strongly not to let yourself be caught up in his affairs.”

The pit dropped from Ben’s stomach as he fully comprehended Lord Devan’s meaning. “I—I understand, sir,” he stammered. He wanted out, he wanted to leave—he wanted to be anywhere but here. He caught a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye—Armitage was watching—

He offered his best attempt at a smile. “Thank you for your words. I shall take them to heart.”

Lord Devan nodded solemnly, clapping a hand to Ben’s shoulder. Ben noticed he smelled strongly of pine, detected a slight tang of metal. The woodsy smell reminded him of his father.

“Are you quite done, my lord?” Hux’s voice interrupted, cutting as a blade. Ben and Devan both jerked around in surprise; Armitage wore a sweet, boyish smile that was utterly at odds with the deadly glare from his eyes. His light eyelashes fluttered slightly. “And how is the Bishop Devan? Very glad to put that unpleasantness with the Vatican behind him, I’m sure.”

Devan’s countenance darkened; Hux’s summery smile did not slip. “Lord Hux. We were just finished.”

“Indeed, you were,” Armitage said. To Ben, he said, “Shall we?”

“The feast commences in a few moments,” Devan said, but Ben was already being dragged away. Moments later Hux manhandled him into an outer hall, deserted except for a few grotesque gargoyles and a statue of a man Ben did not recognize. Ben’s back hit the wall and Hux’s snarling face pressed mere inches from his own.

“What. Did he say?”

“Devan? Nothing, he just—ah! That hurts!”

“I am aware,” Hux snapped, and Ben recognized the cold fury he had seen in his eyes the first night. Fear blossomed in the back of his skull; he struggled against Hux’s grip on his arm, fingers digging into Ben’s wrists. “What did he say? Don’t lie, my little Ben, it makes me very _angry_ when you lie.”

“He said—he introduced me to people—lords and ladies—someone called Connix, I can't remember their names—“

A sharp elbow drove suddenly into Ben’s side and he dropped to his knees, gasping for air. Hux dealt him a vicious backhand and sudden heat poured over Ben’s cheek. He lifted his free hand to his face and felt blood; the crucifix on Hux’s hand glimmered in the candlelight.

Ben felt Hux’s hand in his hair, tangling in the crown of it, massaging his scalp. In his most velvety voice, Hux asked, “Are you very sure about that, Ben?”

“I am,” Ben said. He felt tears in his eyes and felt himself heat with humiliation, the tears spilling free. He bowed his head and hoped no one would come upon them to see. “I am, I promise. He—he asked me about the weather, wanted to know what Spain was like—we didn't talk about you, or anything—please, you must believe me—“

“Ben, Ben, Ben,” Hux said, and Ben looked up in time to see his lips curl into a beautiful smile. “I know everything you just said is a lie.” He ran his thumb over Ben’s bleeding cheek, the soft leather caressing his skin. “Why do you refuse to tell the truth?”

“I am,” Ben said again, almost too quietly to be heard.

Far off, a clock chimed, deep and reverberant. Hux’s head tilted as he listened. “Two ‘till midnight,” he said coldly after the chimes had stopped. “The feast has started. I’m sure a servant can help you find your way.”

He turned on the heel of his pointed boot and strode away without so much as a backward glance. Ben raised a hand to the cross under his tunic, and grimaced as he noticed his hand was shaking. Gritting his teeth, he wiped the blood off his face on the sleeve of his tunic, dying the silver embroidery red. He pushed himself to his feet, hands clenched into fists at his sides, and made his way back into the ballroom.

Hux was nowhere in sight. Ben scanned the crowd, finding no trace of flaming hair, feeling his frustration grow.

“Wine, sir?”

Ben accepted a glass and took a great gulp of it, feeling his shame and confusion melt away as he drank it down. He drained the cup and accepted another, then pushed through the crowd, feeling a few ladies’ gazes hang on him as he passed. He smiled at a few of them, emboldened by wine, searching Hux out.

“Lord—Lord Organa? Is that you?”

Ben wracked his brains for a few seconds, fighting to recognize the round, weak face. “Lord Wykeham,” he said, glancing over the man’s shoulder as he spoke. “Have you seen Lord Hux?”

“I—I was just about to ask you the same,” Wykeham said. Ben did not reply; after a few moments he cringed under Ben’s knowing, judging stare. “I—I mean—pay it no mind, Lord Organa.” He coughed, beady eyes darting about in search of an escape. “A truly lovely gathering, is it not? We hardly have such frivolity at home—“

“Ah, there is Lady Wykeham,” Ben said. Wykeham jerked around guiltily, wine jumping in the glass in his hand; Ben took the distraction to hastily move away, already scanning the crowd for a glimpse of red hair. Gaily dressed lords and ladies were filtering into the banquet hall, but Lord Hux was nowhere in sight.

After a few moments of frustration, he cornered a squat, greying servant and demanded whether he had seen Lord Hux leave the hall. The servant winced visibly, glancing around as if wishing profoundly to be elsewhere. “ _Oui,_ my lord,” he admitted.

“Which way did he go?”

“Just down the corridor, on the last left, my lord,” the servant said hurriedly, then gave him a hasty bow. “Is that all, my lord?”

“Yes,” Ben said, and the servant promptly rushed away before Ben could possibly ask anything more of him. Ben thought of what Devan had said. _Lord Hux… has a reputation._ Could that ‘reputation’ be what drove the servant away in such hurry? Or was he simply overworked, afraid to be missed from the banquet hall?

Ben pushed such thoughts away and made for the indicated corridor, stoking his false confidence. Surely Lord Hux wouldn’t be so rude as to miss the feast? He would thank Ben for finding him and informing him of the goings-on.

At the end of the corridor he came to a stop and, tentatively, pushed open a door on the left. After a few heart-wrenching seconds, he crept inside to see. The room was empty, the candles out and cold. A sumptuous four-poster stood in the center of the room; the fireplace was roaring and throwing off inviting heat and light.

Lord Hux was nowhere to be seen.

Disappointed, Ben backed out of the room and shut the door gently behind him, senses on high alert for any passing servants. Convinced it was clear, he crept forward.

A high cry caught his ear. Ben turned, at once hesitant and curious, hearing another muffled sound emanating from the door opposite the hall. After a few moments he realized with supreme embarrassment that they resembled cries of passion—very _passionate_ passion, in Ben’s estimation.

Could—could Lord Hux be with a woman? Ben had a sudden, vengeful vision of Hux caught in the filthy act, eyes wide in shock and his lady shrieking much like she did now. He crept closer, until he was mere inches from the lacquered door.

The woman seemed to be in the throes of some unimaginable ecstasy, Ben noted bitterly. How a man as cold as Hux could be such a pleasing lover, he could not imagine. Her throaty cries spilled through the door, intermingled with sighs and shivering moans, sending chills down Ben’s spine. Heart pounding in his chest, he wavered on a moment’s indecision, then crouched down at the keyhole.

Pale thighs—sickly, for a woman, too boyish—spread wide, curled obscenely around the lover’s back. Ben could just see an equally pale back arched in the grip of passion, a man’s shirtsleeves, the couple rutting like animals. Ben crouched down further—

A searing flash of shock shot through Ben and he nearly fell away from the door, catching himself on the door handle at the last second.

A glimpse of bright fiery hair was visible on the pillows. A few seconds’ more observation revealed Hux’s face as his thin torso arched further back against the bed, his red lips falling open and gasping out a tantalizing _ah ah ah_ as the other man thrust into him. His slim legs were spread wide, his arms thrown over his head; he made as debauched an image as was possible.

Ben’s stomach twisted in a dizzying rush. His face felt like flames; his skin buzzed with shock and shame and— _lust._ Thick, heady, wicked lust, like Adam for Eve, like Eve for the serpent—

“ _Quiet_ ,” the other man growled, his hand pressing over Hux’s open mouth. Hux moaned into his hand, muffled and wanton; Ben imagined his own hands around Hux’s slim neck and had to stifle a sudden noise of his own.

Then without warning the other man grunted and ceased. A moment later he shifted off Hux’s pale body, leaving him gasping, thin chest heaving and flushed red. His face looked fevered, his pale eyes glassy, long hair spread around him and sticking to his sweaty arms. Ben stared at him, unable to tear his eyes from the wicked picture.

“Dress,” the other man said and Ben startled, scrambling away from the door and to his feet. He tore down the hall, unable to banish Armitage’s slender body beneath another man, arching in pleasure, the obscene noises that fell from his lips—

He arrived in the banquet hall disheveled and sweaty, out of sorts, roving aimlessly, half-searching for a familiar face. Lord Wykeham, he noticed distantly, was distinctly avoiding him; Bishop Alcinus did not register his presence at all. Lord Devan was speaking with a tall lady in a green gown, servants milled about frantically as guests began to seat themselves at the laden-down tables—

“There you are,” Hux’s voice said in Ben’s ear. Ben jumped guiltily, whipping around to face him. “Where the hell have you been? The banquet started nearly an hour ago..”

“The—banquet?” Ben stammered. Words refused to come; a few jumbled, panicked pieces of Spanish came to him, but nothing else. “Ah, yes—that—banquet.”

Armitage gave a tiny frown. His hair was perfectly tied in place, his face a little too close; Ben could see the myriad of freckles dusting is porcelain skin. He looked pristine, the opposite of the debauched mess through the keyhole. “Are you drunk?”

“Drunk?” That would explain the heat. And the sweat trickling down Ben’s back. He could feel himself stiffening shamefully in his breeches—that, too, had to be due to the drink. “Yes—yes, I am.”

“Then sit, before you fall down,” Hux said primly, taking him firmly by the arm and pushing him into a seat. “How much did you drink?”

“Not much,” Ben muttered. Hux’s eyes flicked briefly heavenwards; Ben thought of his wet, open lips and glanced quickly away.

“Well, have some beer to drink it off,” he said, pushing a large tankard into Ben’s hand. Ben accepted it gratefully and began to gulp it down, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. English beer was too Germanic for his taste, but he swallowed it down nonetheless.

“You met Father Rooke, I presume?” Hux said, eyeing Ben with boredom, one brow still arched. Ben offered the man his hand and choked on the beer as the Abbot shook his hand. His hand— _he_ was the other man—a _priest—_

“I have not,” Ben managed, then coughed as the beer stuck in his throat. “A pleasure, father.”

“Likewise,” Rooke replied gravely, bowing his head. “I trust I shall see you at the Sabbath? Lord Hux’s lands are my parish.”

“O-of course,” Ben said weakly, pausing to cough again, watching them both in disbelief.

“Until then,” Rooke said with an incline of his head, then allowed himself to be led off in conversation with another lord. Hux hit Ben’s back none too gently and his coughing ceased. “Are you finished with my cloak?”

Ben handed it to him without another word. Armitage draped it over his shoulders and stood. “Excuse me,” he said, then took off without another word, leaving Ben alone with the beer and his achingly stiff cock.

 

 

 

By an hour past midnight, Ben was very drunk. He could feel his drunkeness, the slurring of his vision and speech, the faint harbinger of a headache. In the banquet hall there were only a few men and women besides him still stirring, even weakly.  His arms were around some lady’s waist, her corset hard against his hands. She was bony and thin, her breasts pitifully small, but she laughed and squealed at every word Ben said.

“Aren't you _darling,_ ” she slurred. She was almost as drunk as him. She carded a hand through Ben’s hair, wriggling closer, lips pursed. She had already spilled a tankard of beer in his lap. “So dark and handsome. No one like you in the whole of England.”

Some remote part of Ben doubted there were no dark-haired and dark-eyed men in all of England, but he did not raise the point. She glanced to a mousy-looking man passed out on a bench near them, then offered Ben a sultry smile. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

She tried on a put-upon smile. “You know what.”

An intrusive memory recalled pale thighs and breathy moans. Ben gave her a passable facsimile of his father’s scoundrel’s grin and scooped her up without a further word, her dull blonde hair sweeping over his forearm as she giggled with delight. Her body pressed against his, angular and warm.

“Where are we going? Oh!” Ben stumbled as he stood, catching his balance only at the last moment. She threw her arms around his neck, her breath hot and unpleasant on his face, still laughing that high, trilling laugh.

Ben carried her down the empty hall, pushing open the last door on the right and depositing her on the bed. The fire roared in the fireplace; the bed and the room were still warm. He nudged the door shut with his knee and bolted it shut.

“Oh, my _lord,_ ” she breathed, and suddenly her hot breath was all over Ben’s face, smelling of wine and beer and roasted venison. Arms like vices encircled his chest; he fumbled with her skirts, finding layer after intangible layer, armfuls of material—he wished he could cut them away with a sword, hack through them like brush in a forest, straight to the trunk of her skinny legs.

After a few panicked moments Ben found her mouth with his own and pressed into her lips, sputtering slightly as her clammy tongue poked abruptly into his mouth, jamming into his own.

He gave up on her skirts and felt for her waist, creeping up her corset strings and finding a long wall of buttons. Disheartened, he fumbled with the tiny things; she shrieked and giggled as he finally gave in and ripped her dress free in desperation, seizing on the corset strings as if they held salvation itself.

He pulled, he tugged, slowly, grunting, she expanded, her ribcage freed from the whalebone prison constructed for her. Emboldened by success, he plunged his hands into the fray of her skirts once more until he found the clammy fabric of her undergarments. He pulled at them and she shimmied free, clasping his face in her surprisingly strong grip and inserting her tongue—

“Now you,” she gasped between bouts.

Ben struggled with his belt, unbuckling it and pulling it off his hips, moving next to his breeches, pulling them down with effort and fumbling with his undergarments. Her tongue was in his mouth again, distractingly mobile; he discovered his cock soft and spongy in his hands, utterly despondent.

Furtively he kneaded it with one hand, feigning a continued struggle with his breeches. Her arms were around his shoulders now, suffocatingly tight, her weight like an albatross around his neck.

He palmed his cock more furiously, to no avail. He remained as soft and lifeless as an old man’s.

Slim fingers wriggled by his own and Ben yelped, jerking away. She gave chase, kneading, stroking, prodding, to no avail. She at last went still, wriggling ceasing, and Ben felt his mind grind to a halt, frozen with terror and shame.

“I—my apologies—my lady,” Ben stammered, feeling his inadequacy as she shifted against his hips. He could not bear to meet her eyes, or even look in the direction of her face. “It has been a long night—that is—I mean—you are very beautiful but I—I am afraid I—“

“Save your apologies!” she snapped and Ben recoiled. She pulled his hands off her waist and thrust them aside, fumbling angrily with her skirts. “I know your type. I thought you were different but you are all the same—English, Spanish, the lot—degenerate _nonces_!”

The same fluttering terror that Devan’s too-knowing warnings had brought tightened around his chest again. “I am not—you must believe me, I just have… reservations about the nature of our sin—it _is_ a sin, it is but God’s reminder of virtue—“

She snorted, her scathing gaze cutting into Ben like a blade. “You expect me to believe all that damnable tripe? Lady Wykeham’s husband says the same thing to her, and you see the shameful way he conducts himself. She caught him with a servant boy, you know, in their own _bed_ —you men are all pigs—“

“I am not like that!” Ben shouted, then cowered down again, fearing his own temper, forcing contrition. “Let me help you with that,” he said, reaching for her buttons almost desperately.

“No!” she cried. “You had your chance. Stay away, you disgust me.” She dressed herself with impressive quickness, slim nimble hands working over her buttons almost too quick to see. In seconds she would be gone, the room empty, Ben’s failure complete.

“Don’t say that!” Ben begged.  “Don’t go, don’t—I’ll make it up to you, I swear—I’m sorry—“

Her eyes flashed. She made for the door; Ben grabbed her arm, held her in place. She jerked on it, trying to pull free, a horrible, mocking sneer carved deeply into her face. “You are pathetic. And all the ladies in England will know of it. Of that you have my word.”

Before he could stop himself he sneered back, “Well perhaps if you didn’t reek so disgustingly of beer and pant like an overeager whore, I might have an easier time. I never have issue with a lady of _virtue_.”

She struggled harder, brazen and blazing with disgust, as if she could see through him and into his wicked thoughts. “I almost felt sorry for you, being forced to live with that horrid man. But you seem perfect for each other.”

Ben’s temper flared and his free hand cracked across her thin face. She hit the mantle behind her and fell to the floor with a thud.

For a long moment Ben stood still, the room eerily silent. After a few moments more he could hear the gentle rasp of his own breathing, the soft ticking of the clock on the mantle. The room was stiflingly hot; he could smell the crackling fire and feel the thick heat in his throat.

She was very still.

Kneeling down, he gently shut her staring eyes and scooped her up carefully, cradling her against himself. She was so still, blessedly still, quiet and beautiful. He stood and carried her to the bed, depositing her on the soft covers, arranging her small arms at her sides. He let down her hair from its tight coiffure, removing pins and ties with patience and care, so as not to pull on her hair. At last it fell around her shoulders, long and strawberry blonde. He noticed she had freckles on her nose and cheeks and stroked them softly with his thumb.

She was dead.

A terrible _urge_ hit him and Ben jerked back, bile hitting the back of his throat. His stomach heaved; he reeled, dropping to his knees and choking on vomit. Tears stung his eyes; his head swam.

Ben wobbled on his feet but managed to climbed onto the bed. Avoiding the corpse he lowered himself to the mattress, breathing in deeply. The sheets still reeked of sweat and sex, the odor tangy and thick, suffusing his sinuses. His cock felt suddenly heavy; he was stiff in his breeches, fully erect without his hand.

Ben flushed and turned away from the intoxicating smell, the fragmented visions of straining limbs and obscene cries. She lay next to him, a flower in bloom, soft and yielding; the firelight danced on her still, peaceful face, warming it, making it alive.

Carefully he turned her over, pushed away the abundance of skirts. He gripped her bony hips—still warm—running his hands over her skin, kissing her soft back and shoulders, stroking her hair, whispering sweet nothings in her ear ( _you are so lovely like this, I want you so much, beautiful girl)._

Discretely, so as not to be crude, he spat into his hand and palmed himself down, pressing kisses to the back of her neck, stroking the small of her back. He imagined her moving and moaning under him, like Hux’s tantalizing cries—

Gently, almost reverently, he pushed into her, a soft sigh escaping his lips. She was so good around him, so good and warm, he wanted all of her, he _wanted_ —

He began to stir his hips, trying to keep from groaning aloud, slowly increasing the force behind the movement. He was starting to feel the _pressure_ in his cock, in his legs, in his skull. The pressure was becoming intense, straining his back and his legs—he felt his toes curl and clenched his jaw, his breath coming in harsh and fast, his hands gripping her waist with bruising force. Tears stung at his eyes, blurring his vision; he bit at his lip to keep from weeping. He held on as long as he could after that and finally gave in and a rush of sensation swept through him and—

He felt himself collapse next to her on the mattress, awash in the satiation of release. He was hiccupping as if crying, tears tracking down his cheeks, his mind was hazy and sluggish; he stroked her sharp cheek clumsily with his hand, fighting down a sob.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, to her, to God, to everyone. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m so wicked. Forgive me._

_Help me._

Then he fetched his knife from his boot and set to work, sobbing, teeth clenched, as he engraved his love into her flesh. He loved a woman. _He loved a woman._ He may have been many wretched things but he possessed at least that virtue after all—

A door slammed and Ben started, jolting off the bed and righting his clothes with madly trembling hands. He threw her skirts over her pink, chalky legs and hid the bleeding spot on the side of her skull with her hair. Then he rolled her over and presented her in a more polite manner, wincing at the soaked-through spot in her dress.

She looked peaceful. That, he thought, was something.

As a last afterthought he snatched a single dangling earring from her left ear and shoved it clumsily into a pouch on his belt, then fled. He threw his cloak around his shoulders and wiped his face awkwardly with his shoulder, unbolted the door with effort and rushed mindlessly down the eerily deserted, drunkard-strewn halls. Then he ducked behind a statue and crouched down, collapsing in on himself as he sank towards the floor. His shoulders shook pathetically as Ben began to sob. He felt wretched, ready to vomit, mouth gaping wide in a silent, furious scream.

Bowing his head and curling further in on himself he made empty pleas for God to forgive him, pledging his repentance, that he would never do it again. Knowing full well that they all were empty lies. He sat there for what felt like hours, the muscles in his legs screaming, his spine begging for mercy, the blade of his knife cutting into his palm—

“Ben! _Ben!_ Where are you?! _Ben!”_

Ben jerked up and wiped his face hastily on his sleeve, pushing himself agonizingly to his feet, his whole body howling in protest. Hux’s glowing face appeared shortly afterwards, a storm of commotion not far behind him. His pale eyes were wide and wild in his ecstatic face, his color high and his cheeks blazing with heat.

“Have you heard?” He demanded gleefully, grabbing Ben around the middle and squeezing him tightly, a bright grin on his face. “A lady has been _murdered._ Sliced open like a spit-roasted ham. Lovely work on the ribs— _ah—_ I mean, a dreadful tragedy to be sure. But Ben!” He twirled Ben around in a dizzying circle, as if they were still dancing; Ben clung onto him and tried his best not to vomit. “Can you hear the vaunted lords and ladies scream? It’s delicious!”

“Stop it!” Ben cried, pushing him away. Tears were coursing down his face anew; there was such a turbulent pain in his chest—his soul—he thought it might physically burst free from his body.

Hux grabbed his shoulder and forced him closer, leaning in so close that his lips brushed Ben’s ear, fingers digging into the side of Ben’s neck. “Insides everywhere, Ben. You should have seen the blood. All that glorious blood… like an animal ripped her apart. One of your wolves, Ben.”

Ben _shoved_ and Hux stumbled away. Then Ben’s stomach heaved and he vomited thick, undigested chunks of the feast onto the flagstones where Armitage’s immaculate boots had been seconds before.

“Stop crying,” Hux snapped. “It’s undignified.” He seized a handful of Ben’s doublet and hauled him to his feet, gripping his jaw and forcing Ben to face him. Ben could not quite meet his eyes, terrified his gaze might betray his horrible guilt. “Poor little thing,” he said, his voice almost as soft as a dove’s coo. “Poor little virtuous Ben. So out of his depth. Couldn’t even harm a barfly. You would have made a terrible Knight,” he added, with a hint of a sneer, and Ben’s pride rankled— _he must keep quiet—_

“Pardon, my lord,” he said hastily, his voice coming out in a convincing warble over the lump in his throat. He shuddered as Hux’s hand ghosted over his cheek, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his boots.

“ _You_!” A man screamed. Ben jerked around, eyes flying open, hand leaping to his knife. An irate, mousy-looking man tore down the flagstoned hall, pursued by a grim flock of lords. “You! You’re responsible for this!”

Armitage’s already-bright face began to glow, incandescent as the very sun. His angular features drew into an odd facsimile of contrition; his eyes were very wide. “Don’t be absurd, Lord Dunne,” he said, his hand dipping towards the parrying dagger at his belt. “What quarrel could I possibly have with Lady Dunne? I suggest you take the issue up with any of her—rather long, I might say—string of lovers.”

“You _bastard_ —“ Lord Dunne cried, his wan face twisted up in hate, slashing wildly—

Ben slammed into Hux and cried out as a line of fire opened over his face. The floor hit him moments later, bruising force on his hip and shoulders; he could scarcely open his eyes but he could see Hux’s furious, ferocious snarl, silver dagger in one hand and the other balled in an angry fist, planted protectively over Ben’s body.

Ben scrabbled for purchase, pushing himself off the floor and stumbling as the world lurched before him. His hand closed around the hilt of his father’s knife; he lashed out almost blindly as the other men fell upon them like the wolves of his youth, knives flashing and biting like teeth and claws. His lips drew off his teeth in a snarl, excitement for the fight thrilling through his very bones. His back hit Hux’s and they fell automatically into a rough partner’s dance of dodging, parrying, slashing, each moment passing with blinding speed—he’d accepted a few cuts but had delivered far more; he could feel Hux’s warm form pressed against his own moving with equal speed and felt himself grin—

“ _ENOUGH_!” Devan barked, his voice having an arresting force on the lords surrounding them. The man himself appeared seconds later, his sword drawn and his weathered face hard, furious. Ben thought with panic of the earring in his belt and gripped the hilt of his knife, ready for a kill—

Hux landed a last, vicious slice to a man’s face before turning around as his last victim writhed and screamed on the floor. Blood covered his face and his slim arms were littered in tiny cuts, but he was flushed with pleasure, breathing hard, his eyes lit up with transcendent joy. “Yes, Lord Devan?”

Devan’s grey eyes fell on Ben and he saw his jaw work, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, looking grim, as if he’d lost a prodigal son.  “Explain yourself,” Devan snarled, then rounded on all the others who were not incapacitated or unconscious. “The lot of you. I tolerate no dueling in my house.”

“Lord Organa and I were attacked,” Armitage said, still breathing hard, his pale eyes wild and fixed on Devan as if he might lash out at him as well. “After Lord Dunne made frankly insulting insinuations that I harmed the Lady Dunne. Lord Organa can confirm it was all in self-defense.” Hux’s expression turned impish, almost coquettish. “Lord Dunne is in deep shock, my lord. He requires urgent attention.”

“I’m sure,” Devan said, dislike and vague disgust etched into his lined, tanned face. “Given the situation, would you be so...kind as to take leave for the evening? Given Lord Dunne’s most unfortunate condition, I would hate to distress him further or endanger you...” he turned to Ben, Han’s deep disillusionment reflected in his face, “or Lord Organa.”

“Of course,” Hux sneered, making no move to sheath his dagger. The thin blade was edged in crimson blood; the men around him sported truly dreadful wounds. He was a ferocious combatant, to be sure. Ben’s respect for him grudgingly inched upwards.

Hux’s tapered fingers closed around Ben’s, surprisingly warm. Coldly, he said, “Good evening, Lord Devan. My condolences, Lord Dunne.”

And with that he strode towards the Great Hall, helping support Ben’s weight with his shoulder. As soon as they were out of view he drew to a halt, throwing off his cloak and pressing the nearest edge to Ben’s face. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said angrily. “I’m not a child, I can defend myself, you oversized toe rag—“ then softened as Ben groaned at the unexpected pressure on the wound.

He fell silent. Then, grudgingly, “You aren’t bad at close quarters.”

“So I am deemed fit to hurt a barfly?” Ben asked, his voice muffled by the thick velvet of Hux’s cloak.

Hux sighed, looking put upon. “Yes, Ben, you are, big strong Knight like you. Now quiet and take my cloak, it’s good enough of me that I let you bleed on it.”

Ben laughed. The thrill of the fight was far from over; he felt exhilarated, exalted, as if he might conquer the world. The pain on his face was but a distant memory, a shallow wound that would leave almost no scar. “I don’t need nursemaiding,” he said, handing the cloak back.

Hux grinned, his small white teeth gleaming in the dark. The cold hit Ben like a wall, making him shiver, but he was far too joyous to notice. Cooped up for so many long months with Uncle Luke in his monastery, a fight and drawing blood was intoxicating. He felt alive. He felt free, free of guilt, free of all the restraint heaped upon him by his mother and uncle and above all himself, free of God Himself—

The stable boy came running up with Matilda and Esperanza, white as a sheet as if he’d seen the devil himself. “Y-your steeds, my lords,” he stammered, looking their bloody clothes and grins up and down with abject terror.

“Thank you,” Hux replied and the boy flinched.

They mounted easily and within seconds they were away, the frigid air whipping at Ben’s hair and his bloody face, harsh on his lungs and his exposed skin. The moonlight lit the impenetrable gloom in front of them, Esparanza fairly flying over the earth, her body working furiously, her dark eyes wild and her barrel chest heaving. Matilda floated above the ground like a ghostly apparition, Armitage’s pale skin almost as unearthly in the moonlight, his hair loose and streaming behind him and whipping at his face. Ben felt some kind of dark joy rise buoyant in his chest at the strange, unnatural vision, horse and rider as one.

Hux caught Ben’s eye and laughed.

 

 

 

Ben bolted the heavy chamber door behind him and stripped out of his wet, bloody clothes, throwing them on the hearth for a servant to collect. His head felt heavy, throbbing, as if filled with wool; his mouth tasted of cotton. The drink pounded in his skull and poisoned his stomach, making his limbs light and trembling and weak. The cut on his face stung terribly; his arms and legs trembled as he stooped to pick up his belt.

His fingers found the leather pouch that contained the diamond earring and he felt the salt well in his eyes, his soul shot through with guilt. He tore it clumsily off the belt and stumbled naked over to the bookcase where he withdrew the box and threw the earring in before hastily returning it to hiding, then nearly fell as he staggered back towards the bed.

He threw open the trunk and dug around until his hand found the familiar leather-wrapped handle. Long, glossy strands of leather were soft in his hands; he curled his fingers around the handle, fighting away tears.

He knelt down before the fire, at the large, gold crucifix on the mantle. The stone bit at his knees, cold and hard, his legs trembling in protest. Blood seeped from the iron cilice around his left thigh. He took a deep breath, let it out.

The first blow felt like fire. Ben bit down on his lip to keep from crying out. Hot tears fell down his cheeks, salty on his bleeding lip, landing wet on his knee. He locked his eyes on that tiny wet drop and lashed himself again, again, again, until he’d mastered the pain, his skin buzzing and his breath coming hitched and short, choking on tears, the pain in his knees unbearable, his back on fire.

Only once he collapsed, the bloody scourge falling from his hands did he stop. He lay there in a purified haze, sobbing freely, feeling atoned and sated but not at all content.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys there's been a lot of great stuff in the past two months, so please check out the art by first-disorder/disordr [here](http://first-disorder.tumblr.com/post/152741856649/armitage-hux-from-firstordershitpostings-and), and from [jathis](jathis.tumblr.com), who commissioned !! Techie and Matt [here](http://jathis.tumblr.com/post/152470106874/lookit-what-owl-got-from-first-disorder-its-from).
> 
> Also. Please check the notes for chapter-specific warnings. And if you have opinions about the main tags let us know because I am hopeless at tags.

Ben made his way along the village’s main street, his shirtsleeves billowing pleasurably in the breeze. To his cynical surprise, the sun had come out and the clouds had almost cleared, allowing the warm light to caress his skin. It felt invigorating and his skin crawled with energy; he felt refreshed, alive. He breathed deeply; the air smelled of pine and smoke with a hint of the sweetness of fresh grass.

He’d left behind his fancy doublet in exchange for a simple tunic he’d worn when training as a Knight, able to pass as a lowly merchant rather than nobility, blessedly unremarkable. His father’s knife was belted at his waist, his sword still trapped in the Hux armory. He felt more free than he had in months, years even; he wished he had Esparanza so he could go for a ride through the countryside.

The thick, heavy gates were wide open—it was market day, after all—and Ben ventured through, half expecting someone to stop him and demand he stay within the Manor’s bounds.

No vituperation came and so Ben headed out, passing over the drawbridge and squinting up at the alert guards on the walls. Carriages and wagons rolled past, exciting a flurry of hay and dust and grass that made Ben cough and hurry to pass onto less traveled paths.

He wandered along the main road aimlessly for a while, admiring the molting leaves and the dense forestation of the Hux lands, the peaceful farms, the twittering birds and romping animals. Alone, he felt at peace, able to think without the constant pressures on his mind. He felt closest to God in His Creation, felt the holiness suffuse him as he contemplated the wonders before him.

It had been nearly three weeks since the events of Lord Devan’s ball, and Ben could not shake the distinct impression that Armitage was avoiding him. At first this had distressed him, but he had grown to appreciate it. Yet the Manor hummed with some great anxiety that Ben could not source the cause of and he felt removed from it all, unwanted.

A shout and a scream shattered the idyllic silence. Ben’s hand flew to his knife and he dipped down towards the forest, running along the bottom of the embankment of the road towards the source of the cry.

Bandits armed with swords and clubs surrounded a laden wagon, terrified servants cowering among the sacks of grain, a slain guard bleeding out in the dust. Ben took in the situation with a rapid flick of his eyes, then took off at a crouching run, driving his father’s knife into the back of the straggler nearest him and wresting his sword from his hand as he went limp.

“Over there!” one of the bandits yelled, and Ben raised the sword—heavy and clumsy and poorly wrought—with a fierce snarl.

Two of the bandits charged him at once; Ben danced between their attacks and hacked into the first man’s shoulder, the powerful reverberations jarring his arms painfully, and let his momentum bring him spinning around to drive his blade into the second’s belly.

He noticed one of the remaining three attempting to sneak towards the wagon—ostensibly, to take a hostage—and leapt in close for a defensive position. The other three crept warily around him, weapons drawn. Ben rapidly took in their stances and grips on their weapons—two were trained and the other was not. He could hear the servants’ ragged breathing behind him, the quiet sobbing of another. The sun shone bright in his eyes; he winced against the harsh rays.

Then all at once they descended upon him like wolves. Ben charged towards them, slipping between the furthest two and swinging around to slash one’s back in a vicious backhand. He fell with a cry and Ben used the remainders’ distraction to kick the fallen weapon away into the grass.

The remaining two bandits turned to each other and ran just as one of the fallen struggled weakly to rise—

Ben gripped the bloodied sword in both hands and drove the blade down through the man’s chest, spearing him into the dirt. His ribcage cracked with a satisfying _crunch_ and his rubbery limbs toppled into the dirt.

The servants on the wagon stared at him in blank horror.

“You’re safe now,” Ben said, stretching out an assuring hand and lowering the blade—but not dropping it, in case more of the bandits were to appear. “I’m a guest at the Manor. A Knight. You’re safe.”

“Oh thank God, sire,” one of the servants breathed. Another collapsed in relief against the sacks of grain. “You have our eternal thanks, good knight. What may we call you?”

“Ben,” he said, then added quickly, “just Ben. Not Sir Ben.” He squinted down the road towards the Manor, which despite its distance was impressively large against the forest. “Shall I walk you back to the Manor? More of these ruffians may appear. They do tend to travel in packs.”

“If you please, good soul,” the servant said. “But come, rest your legs. There’s room enough in the cart for another. Unless you choose to walk.”

“Thank you, but I’ll walk.” It had been so long since he’d undertaken any real distance on his own two feet, and he found that like the presence of a sword in his hand—even one as dismal as this—was a pleasant relief.

The return to the city walls was a quiet, non-eventful one. Either the bandits had been acting alone, or Ben’s appearance had scared the whole hoard off. As they passed through the gates, Ben caught a familiar flash at the corner of his eye—a dull orange and a scampering movement—

“Pardon,” he blurted out, then rushed off in pursuit, charging down a narrow alley. Just when he thought he’d lost the apparition, he caught a glimmer of movement and ran in that direction, just to see a hunched, scuttling figure disappear entirely. Ben reached the end of the alley and found only a black stretch of smooth stone masonry, the Manor itself.

Blinking in confusion, Ben cast about for any other methods of egress. There were none. It was as if the apparition had sprouted wings and flown up the ramparts—or become mist and strayed through the very walls.

Spooked, and not at all willing to turn his back on the supernatural occurrence, Ben backed away slowly then turned tail and broke into a run, trying hard to pretend that his heart wasn’t hammering in his chest.

Everywhere he went in the Manor he had the feeling he was being watched. Occasionally he would catch glimpses of motion, a flash of white, sometimes what he thought could be a dull orange. Late at night he even thought he could hear shuffling footsteps outside the door.

At the peak of night, surrounded by only a candle and blackness and at his most paranoid, Ben sometimes imagined they were the spirits of those he’d taken, come from purgatory to torment him. This was the closest he’d gotten to confirming or denying that fearful theory.

Squaring his shoulders, Ben wiped his blade on the grass and lashed it under his belt, then made his way back to the Manor, the apparition thrust firmly out of his mind.

  
  
  
  


“It looks much better,” Armitage said softly, brushing Ben’s hair out of his face with eerie gentleness. His breath was warm on Ben’s face and much too close; Ben admired the myriad of light freckles on his porcelain skin. To his eye, if he reached out and touched it, it should feel smooth and cool like marble, not warm and alive. “Does it still hurt?”

“A bit,” Ben mumbled, shifting slightly in his seat and biting his tongue to keep from crying out. His entire torso was still sore and ached sharply with each breath—only the excitement of the fight and the chase had kept him from feeling the still-healing self-inflicted wounds. If someone were to even touch his shoulder he was quite sure he might collapse. In short, he hadn’t even thought about the cut on his face.

He had barely been able to stand when he woke a few mornings ago. Having a colossal, throbbing headache did not help either. He regretted even touching the wine. “Are your injuries significant?”

“These?” Armitage raised his arms, where defensive wounds still bled red through white bandages like stripes. “Hardly. Those men—if you can call them that—were soft. No real challenge.”

He tutted softly, tracing the cut on Ben’s face in the air. A pout tugged at his lips, jarringly sensuous. “Horribly rude of Lord Dunne, you know. Truly a tragedy that his crops were burnt in a wildfire. And so soon after Lady Dunne’s unfortunate demise. Almost as if some band of demons had it out for him.” He gave a lazy smile. “Hopefully someone catches the perpetrator.”

Ben schooled his face into neutrality, fighting down a shiver. “Mitaka. You said you’d bring me to him.”

Sharp teeth split Hux’s lips and a terrible gleam came to his eyes. “Alas, poor Mitaka! I forgot all about him. Wouldn’t want to, ah, leave him _hanging._ ” He smiled as if at his own private joke, then curled his fingers in Ben’s. “Come. I’ll take you to him now.”

Ben stood with effort, wincing and doing his best not to betray his pain. Hux’s hand tugged insistently at his, that wolfish smile on his lips.

Just then, the blonde servant boy burst into the room, out of breath and looking on the verge of collapse. “My lord—it’s the Lady Madeline—she’s here now, just arrived in the courtyard—“

“ _Now_?” Hux repeated, and his pale eyes widened in surprise. He let go of Ben’s hand, running his fingers through his long hair. “She wasn’t due until two days from now—here now?"

“Indeed, my lord,” the boy panted with a tardy bow. “I’ve alerted the staff, shall I ready refreshment—?”

“Prepare it all,” Hux snapped, rushing anxiously to the window and peering down, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the Lady Madeline. “Her rooms have been kept as they were—light a fire and bring a meal there, she’ll want to move in right away—everything must be perfect.”

“As my lord wishes,” the boy said quickly, then bowed again and hurried away, shouting orders to the others in the distance.

“Who is Lady Madeline?” Ben asked, banishing a spark of curiosity intermingled with a certain jealousy he certainly did not feel.

“Not now, Ben,” Armitage said, fussing with his askew collar and smoothing his gleaming hair, peering at his reflection in the silver tea kettle. “There isn’t much time.”

He swept out of the room, nearly bowling into Ben as he went. Scowling, Ben hurried after him, ignoring the hurricane of scurrying servants and trying to recall the way to the courtyard. Whoever this Lady Madeline was, she certainly seemed to summon more decorum upon her arrival than he had.

A horrible thought struck him and in his distraction he nearly collided with a servant, who hastily scraped and bowed and blurted out an apology. What if Lady Madeline was Hux’s _fiance_?

The idea made Ben so peculiarly miserable he almost considered stomping back up to his chambers like a child. Lady Organa had not mentioned to him a fiance, but perhaps she had been misinformed. The idea irked Ben, and it bothered him a great deal more that it irked him at all. Lord Hux could be betrothed to all of the English countryside, for all he cared.

Ben stepped into the courtyard and winced as the sunlight pierced his eyes, too bright after long hours spent inside the gloomy castle. He held a hand to his brow to shield himself as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. He felt relief flow through him as the heat seeped into his skin.

A sturdy, dark carriage rumbled through the courtyard gate drawn by a team of prancing chestnut horses. The driver drew the team to a halt and Hux beamed expectantly at the door, fidgeting impatiently as the stable boy, a tall muscular young man with curly blonde hair and a surly countenance, pulled open the door with a creak of hinges.

A tall, slim woman stepped out, her body perfectly erect and her head held up proud. Heavy honey curls hung around her head; her eyes were beautiful and shockingly blue, glinting with a hard light. Her thin lips were pursed in a resting frown.

Armitage bent elegantly at the waist to kiss her hand. She graced him with a cool, almost enigmatic smile and he embraced her, laying his snowy face affectionately on her shoulder.

Ben drew closer, still keeping his distance. Lady Madeline returned the embrace with much less gusto, her smile never quite touching her eyes. She looked perhaps as old as Hux, her eyes lined with the first signs of age.

“Ben, meet Lady Madeline,” Hux said, once he had let go and noticed Ben’s presence. “My lady, this is Lord Benjamin Organa, Lady Organa’s son.”

“A pleasure, my lady,” Ben said, bowing in expectation to kiss her hand. She did not extend it to him—Ben noticed a lack of a promise ring and said, to Hux, “Is this your...fiancé?”

Hux stared at him blankly, then gave an abrupt, chittering laugh. “Don’t be dull, little Ben. This is my mother.”

“Your—your—“ Ben stammered helplessly, but no one paid him much mind. Mother and son embraced again, Lady Madeline pressing a cool kiss to her son’s porcelain cheek as Armitage whispered “ _Mama,_ ” in her ear. Together they looked like a painting or a Greek sculpture, beautiful and lifeless.

“I’ve had your rooms readied,” Hux informed her when they had parted once more, taking her white hands in his. “Come—Daniel, get her things—let us retire inside, I’ve had a meal prepared. You must be exhausted from your journey.”

“Oh, darling, I can’t,” Lady Madeline said, and Hux’s smile halted in place, his pink lips parted wordlessly, his pale eyes shocked. To her son’s dismayed countenance, she said, “I cannot live here while _he_ does. You understand.”

He? Ben frowned. Lady Madeline spit out the word with soft venom, as if whoever she spoke of was the most baneful being in existence.

“ _He_ won’t be a problem,” Armitage said swiftly, looking almost crestfallen. Even Ben felt a strange spark of pity for him. “Mama, it will be like the old times. Nothing will bother you.”

“Is he dead?” Lady Madeline asked sharply, so abruptly that both Ben and Armitage flinched. “ _Is_ he?”

“He is.” Hux said, his narrow shoulders squared, his proud head held high. “Ask any one or servant you like.”

Lady Madeline pressed a lace-gloved hand to her son’s high cheek. “Thank you, darling,” she said, her voice never rising or dipping below its coolly modulated surface. “But I need the fresh air. In the countryside. My own home, a quaint little cottage to call my own. I need to adjust to civilization again after so long among those barbarians.”

Armitage’s pale eyes dropped, his expression flickering. “I see.”

Lady Madeline cupped his other cheek in her other hand. “Don’t fret, darling, I expect to see you often. Come visit whenever you please—I’ve sent my boy ahead to the house in Innerslee. It’s hardly a carriage ride away. We’ll be neighbors, my love. Don’t you want that?”

“I missed you, Mama,” Hux murmured, let himself be folded into her arms as she put them around him again. Ben shifted on his feet, uncomfortable, feeling he was being a burden, trying simultaneously not to look too closely at them and not to appear standoffish.

“And I as well, my dear,” Lady Madeline said, stroking his hair.

“I’ll send some people to help with your things,” Armitage promised, his voice muffled slightly in his mother’s thick, golden curls. Ben thought briefly of Lady Organa and felt simultaneously filled with dread and love. “Anything you need, Mama.”

“Thank you, my love,” Lady Madeline said, then pressed a last kiss to her son’s forehead, smoothing his already perfect hair from his forehead. He looked up at her as one might view the Virgin Mary. Ben’s heart skipped a beat as he banished the idea of that same look directed at himself. “Visit soon.”

And with that and one last embrace she was gone, stepping regally into the carriage and waving sweetly as the driver took her away. Armitage’s expression hardened as the carriage disappeared, his narrow shoulders still squared; Ben had the bizarre urge to pull him into his arms and tell him all was going to be alright.

“What are you staring at?” Hux demanded and the impulse of good will vanished. “Don’t gape, Ben. It makes you look more idiotic than you do already.”

“Don’t say that.” Ben growled. How was he supposed to know Lady Madeline was his mother? She could have just as easily been his sister. “Who was she talking about? This man she wants dead?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Armitage said coldly, turning on his heel.

Ben caught his wrist and pulled him back. The bones of his wrist felt almost delicate in Ben’s hands, as if he could crush them in his grip. “You can’t hide everything from me. I won’t have it.”

“I can, and I shall.” Armitage snapped. His narrow nostrils flared, his pale eyes flashed. He attempted to pull out of Ben’s grasp but Ben was stronger, twisting his hand until he was sure it would hurt.

“I’m not some servant boy you can order around,” Ben told him, digging his fingers into Armitage’s thin arm. Armitage held his gaze, glacially stubborn, refusing to flinch or cry out.

“You do want to see your boy Mitaka again, don’t you?” Hux asked, his pale eyes narrowed in a sneer. “If so, I suggest you release me now.”

Mitaka. In all the chaos of Lady Madeline’s arrival and departure, he’d forgotten about him. Unwillingly, he relinquished his grip.

“Good boy,” Armitage said, his sneer deepening. Some ugly part of Ben reared within him—if only he knew, knew the _real_ monster—

Armitage gave a thin smile. “Let’s go find your little servant boy, shall we?”

  
  
  
  


“I thought—I thought you said Mitaka was in the stables tending the pony,” Ben said, trying to hide the stammer in his voice. They’d been descending down dark, winding stairs for what to Ben felt like hours, the only light coming from the ornate candelabra in Armitage’s hand. The very walls themselves, already less than three feet apart, seemed to narrow until they crowded around Ben’s shoulders, suffocatingly tight.

“I did,” Armitage said, and turned to offer Ben another unnerving smile. “Do you not trust me, Ben? Are you afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Ben said, pushing away a thick wad of cobwebs clinging to his sleeve. He squared his shoulders, exhaled sharply. “How much further?”

“We’re almost there,” Hux said, and stopped so abruptly that Ben stumbled into him and had to grab onto his narrow shoulder to keep from falling. A key turned in a lock and Ben crowded behind him, anxious, so close he could almost feel Armitage’s body against his own.

“Patience, Ben,” Armitage admonished, giving him an unreadable smirk that set Ben perfectly on edge. The heavy wooden door before them creaked open on rusted hinges; Armitage strode through, swaying from one foot to another, his hair swinging to and fro like the pendulum of a clock.

“Here you are, baby Ben,” he crooned, gesturing broadly like a conductor at the stand. “Here’s your little Mitaka.” To Mitaka, he said, “Have you missed me, my little crow?”

Mitaka’s dark lashes fluttered and his eyes opened, glassy and unfocused. His split lips were clumsy around his words. “B...Ben...I mean....Lord Organa, sir? Is that you?”

“I’m here,” Ben said. A terrible lump had risen in his throat; he could feel his pulse hammering, his stomach pulsating. He took a stuttering step forward, afraid of what he might see. He didn’t want to see, he didn’t want to know, but his insatiable, human curiosity propelled him forwards. Armitage dipped in closer like a bird of prey, a wild expression of bloodlust on his candlelit face.

Ben looked down and his breath caught in his throat, punched from his lungs. He was frozen in place, robbed of breath. “What...what did you do?”

“Well, I would think that’s quite obvious, Ben,” Armitage said. His lips pulled off his teeth in a terrible smile that was more akin to a grimace. “I’ve had his leg off. Well, I did it myself, but same thing. It was a very beautiful moment, just ask little Mitaka.”

“No,” Ben stammered. He took a step back, sick with horror, unable to look _down,_ down where the short stump of Mitaka’s leg oozed and bled, bound like pig’s meat. “No—that’s not—put it back, make him right—“

“It’s quite all right, sir,” Mitaka said in Spanish, his voice thin and weak, sounding almost sleepy. “I’m fine...now that you’re here, my lord. Can we go home?”

Heat welled in Ben’s eyes and tears spilled down his cheeks. “Yes. Yes we can.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mitaka said with a small, grateful sigh. He sagged in his restraints, his tiny body pale and emaciated on the thick, oaken rack. His wrists and ankle were barely large enough to keep from slipping through the thick iron manacles. Ben’s stomach roiled at the sight.

“You’re a monster,” he said, and his voice broke around the last word.

Armitage beamed. His cheeks were tinged pink, almost feverish. He’d put down the candle so he could slip his hand onto Ben’s arm. “Say it again,” he breathed, stepping around him to drape the same arm around his shoulders. “I love hearing you say it.”

Armitage let out a high shriek of laughter when Ben’s fist smashed into his face, knocking him stumbling into the heavy wooden table behind him. Bright blood covered his face, his nose gushing. He made no move to stop Ben or escape and Ben hit him again, splitting open his perfect lips, bloodying his teeth.

“Ben,” Armitage breathed, then gave another shout of laughter as Ben hurled him to the floor. Ben crouched down and slammed his head into the flagstones, Armitage’s cries sounding too much like moans to be truly convincing.

Ben took him by the throat and squeezed, Armitage’s choked cries falling on deaf ears. He’d choked a girl before, his very first kill, and he knew exactly how the different spasming stages of death felt against his hands—

Armitage’s pale eyes widened as Ben failed to let go, his mouth falling open and his hips bucking frantically against Ben’s—

A shout of pain tore up Ben’s leg and he cried out, hold and concentration shattered. In an instant he was on the floor, Armitage’s sharp knee digging into his back. A knife bit at his throat; in seconds Armitage was on his feet and dealt him a resounding kick to the temple.

Ben’s mind erupted in reverberating pain, all thought and sensation numbed; his skull throbbed as if it had been split open. Dimly he could feel his body going boneless, Armitage’s hot breath tickling the back of his neck, the chill of metal around his wrists, strain in his shoulders—

“Wake up, Ben,” Armitage said, a child’s pout in his voice. A hand hit Ben’s face. “ _Ben!_ ”

Ben blinked, bleary, his mind a haze of confusion. Pale eyes came into focus, as well as red blood. Ben growled, struggling against the unbearable pain in his shoulders—he was hung by his wrists, his ankles similarly shackled to the floor. “Let me go,” he slurred, his tongue thick and unwieldy in his mouth.

Armitage gave a ladylike chitter. “Don’t be silly.” His slim fingers worked the buttons of his doublet and he shelled it off with a satisfied little sigh, stretching like a kitten. “It is warm in here, isn’t it?” He favored Ben with a fond smile. “Don’t you think?”

A flash of silver and a line of fire opened on Ben’s chest. “I said, _don’t you think_?” he snarled. “Answer me when I speak to you, you miserable thing.”

Ben groaned. “It’s cold,” he mumbled. “Where’s Mitaka? He’s—he needs a physician—“

“I’m afraid that’s not quite possible,” Armitage said, a mockery of regret in his voice. “Little Mitaka won’t be leaving here again.”

“Stop,” Ben begged. He jerked on his chains again, pointlessly. “Don’t. Whatever you want, you’ll have it. Just leave him be. He means a great deal to my family—my mother—my cousin—“

“See, that’s just the problem, Ben,” Armitage said, lifting his parrying knife; it was stained in blood. He must have stabbed Ben with it in the struggle. “What I want is little Mitaka dead.”

“You’re a monster!” Ben roared, throwing his weight against the restraints. His lashed back felt like fire and his shoulders ached hellishly but the thought of Mitaka’s pale face and Rey’s anguish were she to learn of his death drove him on. Disjointed phrases in English and Spanish flitted through his mind; he could hardly think of what to say. “You’re insane,” he managed finally. “You’re insane—they’re going to hang you like a common criminal—you’ll be excommunicated for sure—“

“Excommunicated!” Armitage exclaimed with a trilling laugh. “Oh dear me, anything but that!” He laughed again, almost tipsy with power. “Ben, when are you going to get it through your dense, thick skull that I don’t give a damn about your god?”

Ben recoiled. If his hands had been free he might have crossed himself at such overt evil. Even Mitaka, too drowsy to follow the conversation, looked faintly horrified.

“Don’t give me those beseeching eyes,” Armitage admonished, shaking the tip of the dagger like a disapproving finger. “I’ve made up my mind. Have the civility not to question my decision.” He turned sharply to Mitaka, who flinched. “Now, what should I do with you, my little crow?”

Mitaka made a faint moaning sound that could have been words. Armitage _tut-tutt_ ed softly and Mitaka, impossibly, paled further. “That won’t do at all,” Armitage said. “You just need a little bit to wake up.”

He slashed a crimson line into Mitaka’s belly, the movement fast and vicious. Mitaka gave a little cry, high and thin; Ben threw his weight into his chains again, boots scrabbling against the dungeon floor for purchase, a snarl lifting his lips. “Don’t touch him!” he shouted, hurling himself uselessly forwards again. “He’s innocent—stop this!”

“Stop this? Stop what? You’re going to have to be more specific, Ben.”

“You know damn well what!” Ben roared.

Armitage frowned, his deadened eyes sparkling. Despite the horror of the devastatingly sharp knife in his hand, he had never appeared more alluring. Ben’s pulse was racing in his chest, his mouth impossibly dry. “I’m afraid I don’t. Let this be an object lesson to use your words a little more carefully.”

And with a wicked smile he began to remove his gloves, impossibly slow, finger by finger, as if he were a barmaid undressing for a crowd. Behind him Mitaka whimpered, wriggling pitifully in his restraints. Ben could only stare, mesmerized.

“Don’t,” Ben said again, quieter this time, hearing the futility in his own words.

Armitage ignored him and put down his gloves on a table, picked up his dagger and pressed a slim finger to Mitaka’s trembling lips. “Shh, rabbit. It’ll all be over soon.”

Then, carefully, he slipped the dagger under Mitaka’s ribs, pushing the blade into him slowly. Mitaka moaned and struggled slightly, already slipping back into the haze. Armitage pulled the dagger out and caressed Mitaka’s sickly brow with his bloody hand, whispering to him softly. His other hand crept down and found the now-bleeding wound, a tiny mouth in Mitaka’s side, and pushed two slim fingers between the bleeding lips.

Mitaka’s entire body shuddered, writhing against the rack as Armitage dug in further. Hux’s pale eyelashes fluttered obscenely, the tip of his tongue playing over his bloodied lips, his thin chest rising and falling rapidly as if he were in the throes of some unimaginable ecstasy.

Ben swallowed. The tension in his chest—not unlike the pull on his shoulders—had risen to an unbearable point. He tried to tear his eyes away from Armitage’s glistening lips, the shudder in the long column of his throat as he swallowed—

Mitaka’s cries rose to a scream.

“Stop!” Ben shouted. Armitage stilled, blinking in disoriented confusion. Mitaka’s horrible scream died down to a choked gurgle. Mitaka was innocent, Ben his guilty protector—what he must do was laid out for him plainly. The words came to his mind without thought, racing to his mouth unbidden. “Take me instead.”

Armitage’s pale eyes widened, his pink lips falling into a flat _o._ Then, slowly, light seemed to dawn on his face, as if Ben had given him the most exquisite gift. “Oh, Ben,” he said softly, fixing Ben with a doe-eyed look. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Ben replied, even though terror fluttered weakly in his heart. He squared his shoulders and said, “I can’t have you hurting my servant without cause.”

“Oh, how brave,” Armitage said, with an expression that suggested he found Ben charmingly quaint. He withdrew his slender hand, bringing it up covered in dark, glistening blood. “I make no promises that your little Mitaka is safe. Does your offer still stand? Do you want to be torn apart?”

Ben faltered. Offering himself up in Mitaka’s place was madness. Hux would almost certainly kill the servant boy when he was done with them both, and if he didn’t, death would take Mitaka soon enough, regardless. Yet he felt strangely compelled, with a near-holy certainty. He said, “I know what I want.”

The words shocked even him. He thrust them away, refusing to think about their meaning. He was doing this to save Mitaka. It was his duty, as a Knight, as a Christian.

The flush on Armitage’s pale cheekbones deepened. “Well, if you insist.”

As if still wary of a trap, he approached Ben with the knife held securely in his bare hand, then knelt down so that his unnaturally pale eyes were at the level of Ben’s own. He tipped Ben’s chin up with a bloodied hand, then pushed his index finger between Ben’s lips as his dagger pricked the skin of his throat. “Ah ah, no biting. Just a little taste. Good boy. That’s it.”

He smoothed down Ben’s hair as Ben sucked on the tangy blood and tried not to appreciate the way the salt and metallic taste bloomed over his tongue.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he said, absently caressing Ben’s cheek with a bloody thumb. He withdrew the hand and crossed to stand behind him, keeping the knife at Ben’s throat, unshackling him from the chains around his wrists. Ben fell to his hands and his knees, gasping at the relief flooding his torso, limbs trembling from exertion.

“Over there,” Armitage ordered, removing the knife and nudging Ben’s leg with the toe of his boot. “See that pretty rack over there? That’s for you.”

Something cold slipped and coiled in his gut that Ben told himself was fear. He moved to push himself to his feet—

“Ah ah ah, Ben,” Armitage said, his voice smooth and song-like. “Crawl.”

Ben’s breaths were coming short, as if an invisible band had settled around his chest. Shuddering at the wet and cold, Ben crawled in the direction ordered, his knees and palms smarting as the hard rock flagstones bit into his skin.

Armitage nudged him again just as he reached the heavy, oaken contraption. Ben’s hair had fallen in a curtain over his face; he pawed it away and risked a glance upwards.

“Up, so I can fix you in place,” Armitage told him, then gave him another nudge when he didn’t comply fast enough. His legs trembled at the exertion; he clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking. As he stood he could not help but notice that Armitage’s shirt had been opened very loose to reveal his delicate collarbones. Ben imagined the arch of his ribs under his snowy skin and had to swallow his sudden arousal at the thought of wrenching them apart.

He climbed onto the table, avoiding Hux’s eyes. The table did not so much as creak under his weight; he settled onto his back, pearls of pressure at every node of his spine. His palms were slippery with sweat and the candlelight was harsh in his eyes. This was his duty, to protect the innocent.

Armitage took his arms and guided them lovingly into the thick iron shackles bolted into the wood. He leaned over Ben and Ben could smell the pleasant fragrance of his hair. His shirt billowed under him; Ben caught sight of a slim, boyish body, a flash of a pink, pert nipple.

Armitage fixed him with a sneer. Shame seared through Ben and he was afraid he’d caught him looking. Armitage waggled the slender fingers on his still-bloodied hand. “If you want another little taste, just ask.” He put his fingers into Ben’s mouth and Ben sucked eagerly at them, taking him up to the knuckle. Armitage favored him with a dry smile. “You didn’t appreciate it so much the first time, I’m afraid to say,” he said, pulling his fingers away with a severe frown. “Little Mitaka was very attached to that leg, you should have tried to enjoy it more.”

Ben swallowed, his stomach seizing. “The meat—?”

“I’m afraid so,” Armitage said, sounding not at all apologetic. “Your very first meal here was, I confess, rather _forcibly_ donated by our little Mitaka here. He told me all kinds of _juicy_ things about you as well. Is it true you were once found in the company of a whore? By your mother, no less?” He gave a low, chittering laugh. “I would have thought someone of your moral standing could do better.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ben said, his mouth dry and cottony, but he did. He swallowed a wave of nausea at the thought of lumps of Mitaka’s flesh going down his throat, shuddering at the memory of Armitage’s knife at his throat, his fingers in his hair—he lifted his chin, tilting his head at an clumsy angle. “Go to hell.”

Armitage offered a terrible smile. “So defiant.” He stroked Ben’s cheek with the back of his finger; Ben shuddered and flinched away. “I’ll teach you some humility.”

And with that he turned away, absently humming some half-broken waltz as he collected clanking things from a set of shadowy chests just outside Ben’s field of view. Ben imagined all manner of awful things and bit his lip hard to still his imagination. At last Armitage returned, laying out a collection of wicked knives one by one on the edge of the table where Ben could see. Ben swallowed over his suddenly dry throat, watching each blade glint in the candlelight.

“So eager,” Armitage said with a smile, then viewed his collection thoughtfully for a moment and selected a slim, thin blade. “A word of warning, this may hurt just a bit.” He giggled at his own mimicry of humor, then pursed his full lips and regarded Ben with a frown. Ben’s breath caught in his chest as Armitage’s slim fingers played at the top button of Ben’s shirt. “Do you mind if I undo this? It’s so in the way.”

“Do what you must,” Ben growled, but his voice cracked around the last word. He remembered his chivalry vows, his vows before God, and uttered a wordless prayer for strength.

Armitage leaned over Ben and undid each button on his shirt with a lover’s touch. When his chest was bare Ben shivered at the cold; Armitage gave a cruel smile and lifted the slim knife and dragged a deep line over Ben’s stomach. Ben hissed at the sudden cold of the blade, the sting of the cutting of his skin, the horrible sensation of the blade splitting his flesh. Armitage traced a slim finger over the wound, sending a shower of sparks up Ben’s spine and a guttural groan from his throat.

“Feel good?” Armitage asked softly as Ben jerked in his restraints. He brought his fingers up to his lips and licked at the rivulets of Ben’s blood; his eyes slid shut and he gave the softest, wicked moan. He leaned over Ben’s body, his feverish eyes beaming, and worked his hot, pink tongue directly into the wound.

Ben screamed and broke off in wordless agony, writhing uncontrollably in his bonds as Armitage’s teeth nipped the edge of the wound.

“You’re such a treat,” Armitage whispered as Ben drifted back into full consciousness. He righted himself and Ben shivered helplessly as Armitage’s hair, cool and straying from his ponytail, trailed lightly over his skin. His eyes were blazingly intense and his gaze crawled over Ben’s skin like a hoard of insects. “You’re all mine, Ben.”

Ben tried to tear his eyes away but could not. If his arms had been free, he might have crossed himself; he muttered a helpless prayer nonetheless, terror fluttering in his chest like a caged bird. Hail Mary’s spilled gracelessly from his lips, whimpered out like a child’s pleas.

“Your beloved Mary can’t help you, Ben,” Armitage said, his voice carrying so much certainty and finality Ben couldn’t help but choke on a sob, squeezing his eyes shut. Armitage tangled his fingers in Ben’s hair, smoothing it away from his face. His eyes were shards of ice, inhuman. “You’re at my mercy, now.”

Ben sobbed in horror as Armitage’s slim hand skated down his body, the other selecting another, wickedly curved knife. He pressed the new knife to Ben’s ribs. The blade bit into Ben’s skin; he couldn’t help but scream as Armitage dragged it down, slicing under the skin—

“Shh, shh, don’t thrash about,” Armitage said, and Ben couldn’t even fight to still. Tears froze on his face—the pain was unbearable, much more than the lashes he dealt himself or anything he’d ever felt. His body jerked and spasmed but he held himself immobile best he could, jaw clenched so hard against the onslaught he felt his teeth were liable to break. Armitage stroked his forehead as he worked, causing Ben’s body to shudder more than the agony could. “There’s a good boy. It takes such a steady hand to do this little trick, you know. All that writhing was making me liable to slip, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Ben choked on tears and gave a helpless shake of his head. Animal noises slipped through his teeth now, unable to keep down the low, mindless cries.

“Did you know the Church has had heretics under question flayed entirely?” Armitage asked as he worked the blade down, his gaze intent on his work. “Drawing blood or causing harm is forbidden, of course, but there’s always those zealots like you who take things too far. Can you imagine what that would be like, Ben? Being taken apart, inch by inch? Do you want me to do that with you?”

“No,” Ben gasped. His voice warbled with sheer panic, his breath barely enough to speak. His mind was slowing to a dull terror, a throb of _no no no._ He should never have made the foolish challenge, never should have interfered—Mitaka would die anyway. “No, please—no—“

“If you say so,” Armitage breathed, his hair trailing in the rivulets of Ben’s blood, dyeing the tips a dark crimson. Ben gave a strangled groan as he severed the removed skin with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“ _Please,_ ” Ben begged, choking out the words through asphyxiation, but Armitage did not seem to hear, starting on the tender skin over his hipbone. He jerked in his restraints, too weak to pull himself free. “Please!”

“A promise is a promise, Ben,” Armitage lectured in a song-like voice, idly tossing aside another small patch of Ben’s skin. Ben whimpered, unable to bring himself to look down, down at the ovals of flesh oozing dark blood. Armitage gave him an encouraging caress and the knife bit into Ben’s ribs as he sobbed mindlessly into the empty dungeon, screaming for anyone who might hear.

“They can hear you, darling,” Armitage said in soothing tones, and Ben stared at him, uncomprehending. “The servants. They can always hear. They just can’t do a thing about it.”

“Let me go,” Ben begged, his heart and mind not in the plea. He was getting very faint now, the unbearable pain searing away all other sensation. He wondered whether Armitage planned to kill him, too, whether he was as disposable as his servant.

Armitage pulled off a particularly large section of Ben’s skin and his mind submerged under a dull panic. He could feel the cold, the pain, the dark, Armitage’s soft hands on his skin, tracing the edges of his bared flesh.

Then suddenly he gasped, a jolt ramming up his spine. Armitage gave him the smile of a naughty child and traced another razor-sharp cut to the inside of his thigh, cutting through his breeches.

“Stop,” Ben gasped, his spine lifting shamefully off the rack, his hips jerking into Hux’s cruel grasp as he dug his slender fingers into the wound. He let out another shameful gasp as Armitage cut into him again, deeper this time.

“You like that?” Armitage asked mildly. He leaned in close, so that his breath tickled Ben’s waist, his hand exploring the sensitive wound. “Allow me let you in on a little secret, Ben. People will do anything to avoid pain, like our little Mitaka, or—”

Ben gasped as Armitage’s other hand jutted sharply between his legs, punishing his achingly stiff cock. A dizzying wave of something between nausea and arousal pushed through him, leaving him reeling, limbs shaking. Ben yearned wildly to smash his fist into Armitage’s perfect, delicate mouth and explore the bloody mess with his fingers, with his cock—

“For pleasure,” Hux finished, breathing out the words so close to Ben that he could feel Hux’s hot breath on his skin, smell the lemon verbena in his hair—like Leia’s. “Which is it you want, Ben?”

Between the sweet sear of the cuts to his thighs and Hux’s palm digging against his cock, Ben was perilously close, yelling and panting and pulling on his restraints, helpless in Armitage’s grasp. He clawed at the oaken rack, savaging his wrists and ankles as he writhed and arched in his grip—

He spilled out with a hoarse cry, burning with shame, falling limply back in his restraints and gasping out as his vision went white. His sensory world reduced to overwhelming pleasure and agonizing pain, mixed irrevocably together like an artist’s paints. He drifted along in this state for what could have been moments or hours, awash in sensation.

“ _Ben?”_ Armitage’s voice filtered through as if from under deep water. A stinging slap; Ben started and jerked in his bonds, yelling in confused pain and the aftershocks of terrible arousal. Armitage himself appeared in Ben’s vision a second later, haloed by candlelight, transcendent joy shining on his pale face. He waved a glass vial in Ben’s face. “Know what this is, baby Ben?”

Ben stared dumbly for a few moments. Then, fearing another slap, he said, “It’s salt.” His rational mind surfaced sluggishly a few seconds later and terror dawned over his hazed mind. “No, no, no please don’t, no—“

His pleas rose to a scream as Armitage pressed a handful of salt into his wound. Through the haze of raw agony he could feel his head and limbs beating against the wood as he writhed in his restraints. His screams tore at his throat, wrenched from his chest—he wanted nothing more with no greater singularity than for the pain to end.

At last, it did. Relief flooded through his body, sweet and poignant as the grace of God. Ben wept openly now, heaving and whimpering like a trapped, terrified animal. Through a haze of pain and tears, he could just make out Armitage’s awful smile.

“Another?” he said, and raised a palm full of salt.  
  
  
  


Ben awoke a terrible chill, deep and numb and in his bones. His hands and joints felt so stiff he could scarcely move them; when he at last managed to force himself into a sitting position, a searing pain speared through his ribs, as intense as if he’d been run through. Ben screamed through his teeth, hands balled into helpless fists, enveloped in agony. When at last the pain dulled to a low throb, he opened his eyes and noticed the thick white bandages wrapped around his wounds. With a trembling hand, he brought his fingers up to touch.

Sharp bumps brushed under his fingers; with a wave of dizzying horror Ben realized that rock salt had been packed into his wounds under the bandages.

“L...lord Organa, sir? Is that still you?”

Ben jerked around, immediately regretting the sudden movement as a fresh wave of agony lanced through him. He forgot his pain momentarily when he saw the slight, pale figure some feet away.

Mitaka was pale as death, his dark eyes glassy and unfocused. When Ben had dragged himself close enough to touch him, he felt ice cold as a corpse. Ben’s eyes drew to the stub of his leg and he forced himself to look away, feeling his stomach roil at the sight.

“It’s me,” he said at last, his voice rough and cracked in his throat. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

The last lie stuck terribly in his throat but he choked it out nonetheless. He pulled back Mitaka’s dark tunic—soaked through with blood, almost black in the dungeon’s gloom—and held a hand almost desperately to the boy’s wound. He was too far gone, Ben knew, he had but hours to live, but he clung to the small body nonetheless, his last tether to humanity.

“Hold on,” he pleaded in Spanish. “Hold on, please—Lord God, please save him, let him live.” A sob wrenched itself from his chest and he clung to Mitaka’s little body more tightly. He pushed away Mitaka’s sweat-soaked hair and clumsily stroked his clammy, sickly pale face. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, and knew that neither Mitaka—nor God—had heard.

“Please sir,” Mitaka gasped. “Please make it stop. It hurts so much, Lord Organa. Please make it end. Please!”

“I—I can’t,” Ben stammered, Mitaka’s agonized tears scalding into his vision. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t save you—“

Mitaka gave a helpless sob, his faraway eyes barely registering the emotion. His death was coming soon, but it would be agonizing and long, drawn out—Mitaka mumbled again for him to end the pain and Ben grit his teeth against a fresh wave of tears.

There was a way for him to end it. It would be merciful. It was all he could do.

“Stay there, little one,” he said in Spanish, his voice cracking and wavering around the words. Mitaka’s head lolled to the side in what could have been a nod. Ben steeled himself and scrabbled at the flagstones for purchase, dragging himself across the floor, gritting his teeth against the fire searing over his torso. At last he reached the rack where he had been bound. The dungeon spun dizzily around him; he felt as if he was going to collapse any moment.

He reached up and his fingers found the oaken edge. He moved his hand clumsily side to side and eventually a knife clattered to the floor, nicking his fingers as it fell. Ben collapsed gratefully beside it, then curled his hand around the hilt and dragged himself back to where Mitaka lay, trembling fitfully.

“It’s alright,” he said in his softest tones. “It’s okay. Just shut your eyes.”

Mitaka blinked owlishly. Ben’s heart sank. Mitaka didn’t understand his words. He shifted the knife in his hand, fighting down another shudder. He was doing what was best for the boy. He didn’t want this—this was Hux’s fault, his evil cruelty. He raised the blade—

“No!” Mitaka cried, trembling and attempting to scrabble away like a wounded rabbit. “No, my lord, please—!”

Ben pushed a hand to his chest and plunged the knife down. Mitaka gave a choked gurgle and went almost limp, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His body shook with the last vestiges of life but his eyes were dead and lifeless, staring ahead into eternity.

“Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem,” Ben said weakly, sinking into the floor. “Creatorem caeli et terrae, et in Iesum Christum, Filium Eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine—“

A blinding light opened above him and Ben blinked weakly against the sudden radiance. An angel appeared silhouetted in the light, growing closer. Ben let the knife slip from his hands and reached out, his hand shaking—God was coming to claim him, too—

The angel knelt next to him and Ben caught a strong whiff of lemon verbena, the metallic tang of blood.

“I’m here, Ben,” the angel said, taking him into their arms. They were hard, gentle. Cold. “I’m here. You did so well.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben sobbed, pushing his face into the angel’s shoulder. He felt silky hair, cold skin, the same intoxicating smell. He clung to their narrow shoulders like a drowning man. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“You did nothing wrong,” the angel said and pressed a cold kiss to his forehead. Ben stilled, letting himself go limp in the angel’s arms. Peace blossomed through him like heat and light and he huddled into the angel’s embrace. “You did so well. I’m so proud of you, Ben.”

Ben’s drifted shut just as two other figures appeared and carried him into the light.

  
  
  


“Lord Organa sir, thank God you’re awake!” A familiar pale, frightened face appeared before Ben’s eyes. Elizabeth dabbed anxiously at her eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief, her worn hands gripping Ben’s own. “I’ve been praying day and night for you, my lord, I’m so glad He heard.”

She helped him sit up against the bed cushions and pushed a large, warm mug of tea into his hands. “Don’t you move a muscle,” she said, bustling around the bed and returning with a tray of what appeared to be soup. “If you’re feeling up to eating, the kitchen made this lot just a few hours ago, I’ll go get a fresh bowl—“

“It’s fine,” Ben said, but his voice came out in a weak rasp. He swallowed over a dry throat, blinking sleep-stinging eyes. “Please, don’t....don’t worry.”

Elizabeth gave him an apologetic frown, her brown eyes wide and earnest. “We know what happened to your servant boy,” she said, and Ben looked away, feeling the ghost of Mitaka’s spasming body in his arms. “We know how you tried to save him. It was very brave, sir, to offer yourself up for a lowly servant. So if you’ll forgive, we will worry over you. Even...even Lord Hux has been in a state, sir. Some of us even say he was seen up here, reading to you as you slept.”

“It was for naught,” Ben said, but couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of pride at the praise, and a pang of confusion at the thought of Armitage caring about his condition. He tried to smile, and managed only to curl one side of his mouth weakly upwards. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth curtsied, patches of pink showing on her pale cheeks. “I’ll go get that soup, my lord,” she muttered, then scurried away before he could stop her.

As soon as he was alone, the terrible emptiness of the room became apparent and Ben longed for company, anything to keep away the memory of Mitaka’s empty eyes staring out into the dark. The very thought brought the harsh sting of tears to Ben’s eyes. He thought of Mitaka, how he doted on Rey and, once she was old enough to return the favor, how she doted on him in return. She would be heartbroken to learn of his death—his death, tortured and butchered by a madman. Lord Hux’s manor was a realm of great evil. Ben was quite sure he was some sort of devil, if not the antichrist himself.

Ben forced himself further into a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his shoulders and ribs. He caught sight of himself in the mirror opposite him and could not help but stare. His lips were split, his nose slightly swollen and his eyes purpled and blackened. His chest was wrapped in thick white bandages; a tinge of red bled through here and there. He was cocooned in blankets, held immobile.

Ben hiccupped over a sob, berating himself for his own patheticness. The tears stung his eyes like fire; he felt wretched, like a lost, beaten child.

Armitage was going to kill him. Of that, he was certain. How and when were not yet clear, but he knew there would come a time when the other man bored of tormenting him. Maybe he’d take Ben apart on the rack like he had Mitaka, cooing in that soft, jarring voice, madness glinting in his horrible eyes.

Ben was not like that. Of that he was certain.

He had to escape. Escape the manor, escape Hux’s lands, escape England. He could take Esperanza and any supplies he could find and ride for his life, and hope that no bandits or pillagers would find him along the way.

He thought of his mother, her tired, stalwart eyes, and felt tears spring forth anew. Even his uncle’s face made him shake with desperate longing. Rey. He would see little Rey again. He would not die, not here.

But first, Mitaka—and he himself—would have revenge.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Armitage himself appeared in the doorway, looking impossibly fresh and reserved. “Ben,” he said warmly, smiling and striding his way towards the chair at Ben’s bedside. “How wonderful you’re awake. And after nearly a week, too. I was so worried.”

The afternoon sunshine illuminated his eerie profile and set his hair aflame, and even Ben, who was wrestling the urge to smash his grinning skull through the window and hurl him headlong into the courtyard below, was arrested by his otherworldly beauty. Ben’s lips lifted off his teeth in a snarl—

—and then he remembered his plan for revenge. Armitage was too clever a creature to be snared by brute force alone. This required a more subtle tactic.

Ben attempted a smile, and partially succeeded. “Elizabeth tells me you read beside my bed.”

Armitage waved his hand as if wafting away a fly. “It was nothing. A servant’s overactive imagination. I read aloud to myself once.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s that?”

Armitage raised a pale brow, but his colorless cheekbones tinged slightly pink. He shifted the book in his hands. “It’s Aligheri’s _Inferno_. Can’t you read?”

“I can’t,” Ben intoned seriously. “Knights don’t need to read.”

Armitage did not smile, as if sensing he was being mocked but not quite understanding how. He cracked open the book and waved away a puff of dust that accompanied it. “If you’ll hold your tongue for more than an instant, I’d like to read some more.”

Ben lay back on his cushions, wincing as his torso throbbed painfully. Armitage fixed him with a sharp look and settled back into his chair. He read aloud, “Midway upon the journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost. Ah me! how hard a thing—”

“I don’t like the _Inferno_ ,” Ben interrupted, thinking uncomfortably of the sinners’ eternal screams. He had labored through the _Purgatorio, Inferno,_ and _Paradisio_ at his Uncle Luke’s behest, but his Italian was dysfunctional at best and he had been miserable the entire time. Later, after the nightmares began, the images of the _Inferno_ had come crashing back, magnified by the terrible weight of his own wickedness.

Armitage’s pale eyes lifted to the heavens. “Then what, pray tell, do you like?”

“The Bible,” Ben said without hesitation. Armitage sneered, but called for the servant outside the door to fetch him the family copy nonetheless.

“Drink your tea,” Armitage said, reaching over his body and pushing Ben’s discarded mug into his hands. Ben raised the cup and promptly spilled it over his front as Armitage’s cold lips pressed into his own, sharp teeth piercing his lip. Ben whimpered and his heart beat violently in his chest; he was frozen, immobile. Salty blood welled in his mouth and Ben struggled to pull away, Armitage’s grip tight on his arms—

“The, ah, Holy Book, my lord,” the servant’s voice interrupted and Ben jerked, stifling a groan at the ensuing pain.

Armitage fixed the servant—an uncomfortable looking brown-haired man who Ben had noticed before walked with a distinct limp—with a withering glare. “Thank you, Jonathan. You may leave it on the bedside.”

Jonathan complied with only the most thinly decorous degree of haste, then hurried out of the room before anything more could be asked of him.

Armitage’s gloved hand brushed over Ben’s own and his pale eyes glinted with cruelty, that same terrible bloodlust in his eyes. His lips were red with Ben’s blood and it had pooled between his small teeth. “Was that your first kiss, Ben?”

“N-no,” Ben stammered, but the heat on his face told him his lie was not going to be believed. He felt cold, afraid—he wanted to break Armitage’s skull on the stones and spoon out his brains—

Armitage’s smile deepened and he stroked Ben’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Don’t bother, little Ben. I can tell. The way you lay there like a clubbed fish was my first clue.” He squeezed Ben’s hand, taloned fingers digging into Ben’s. “Don’t fear, it meant nothing.” He drifted closer and Ben shuddered as he took a deep breath, as if breathing him in. “You taste so good. I couldn’t help another little bite.”

He pulled back and Ben was suddenly able to breathe again, taking in the fresh, intoxicating smell of lemon verbena with a fresh shudder. The Bible was in Armitage’s hands; he was paging through it idly, as one would a picture book.

“Shall I start at Genesis, then?” Hux asked, his voice silky and low, licking Ben’s blood off his lips. “Or do you have a favorite? I myself was always partial to Ecclesiastes, or perhaps the story of Job.”

“Revelation,” Ben said, choosing not to dwell on the comment about Job, sucking at his freely bleeding lip. “Chapter nineteen, verse two.”

Armitage arched a gold brow, but dutifully flipped through the gilt pages until he had found Revelation 19:2. He read, “For true and righteous are his judgments: for he hath judged the great whore, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand.”

“That’s the one,” Ben said, and smiled.

  
  
  


The next week Ben spent in bed, allowing his wounds to heal. Armitage kept himself entertained by flitting in and out of Ben’s chambers, alternately bringing him food and books to read, the former of which Ben accepted and the latter he generally ignored. At last, halfway through the week after that he got out of bed and stretched his legs, but always rushed back to feign to be bedridden whenever Armitage or anyone else came by.

Elizabeth made surprisingly good company, sitting with him for hours and mending the other servants’ clothes. Watching her nimble hands weave the fabric together and the stolid efficiency with which she worked reminded him strangely of his mother, of the late nights she would spend alone in her study writing letter upon letter to her fellow noblemen and women, exhorting them to take action in some cause or another she was championing.

After a good bit of coaxing Elizabeth talked about her family, her aging mother, her four elder brothers who worked on a nearby farm. Her father was dead and it had been a great boon, she said, that she had been able to find work at the Hux manor. She had not been there for long, perhaps two or three years, and no amount of encouragement or veiled questions could get her to say a word against her master. Even questions that seemed innocuous—had she heard of Lord Armitage’s extended family?—was met with stubborn silence.

“Please, Lord Organa, sir,” she said after he once pushed too far. “It’s not a servant’s place to speak of such things.”

Or any things, as Ben soon found out. Anything to do with the Hux family or Armitage himself brought up only silence. Ben had not yet seen Armitage do anything to harm his servants, besides perhaps the odd slap or snapped criticism, yet he could only imagine what he had done to win such stubborn reticence.

“Tell me about your family, my lord,” Elizabeth said, and he did. He told her about little Rey, how fast she was growing, about his mother and her endless crusading. (Elizabeth looked appropriately shocked when he mentioned Leia’s campaign for a mandatory land allotment for all remaining serfs). He told her of his father, repeating the stories he’d heard over and over, hollowed out to shells by his imagination and longing, stories of chivalry, devilry, and ultimately, love.

“A pirate!” Elizabeth exclaimed, clutching her needlework to her chest. “Why, my lord, I would never have guessed you were sired by an errant knight!”

“He gave up his mercenary ways for the love of Lady Organa,” Ben said, smiling somewhat despite himself at the oft-recounted tale. “And fought in the War of Roses for His Majesty Henry VII, and was rewarded by being named a Knight. After the conflict ended and His Majesty was rightfully appointed to the throne, he and my mother were properly married.”

“How romantic,” Elizabeth sighed, and her wonderstruck expression made her eyes look youthful, betrayed the grey age and wear of her face. The sunlight shone on her straw-colored hair, making her almost beautiful. “Do you believe in such stories, my lord? That such love may triumph?”

Ben shifted uncomfortably in the blankets, pushing aside the three canteens of soup Armitage saw fit to provide in a bout of altruism. “Of course not,” he said, and her expression shadowed, the sunlight extinguished. “My father returned to his mercenary ways as soon as the pains of child rearing became too much for him. He left my mother alone to fend for herself and we’ve borne the costs ever since.”

Elizabeth’s eyes cast down. “Lady Organa seems quite capable, if you don’t mind me saying, my lord.”

“She is,” Ben admitted. The thick bandages around his chest itched terribly; he resisted the urge to scratch them only with the greatest discipline. “Forgive me, I suppose I’ve allowed my emotion get the better of me.”

The last time he had seen his father had been when he was eight years old. He could hardly even remember his face, now, just the worn knife he’d put in his hand with his lopsided smile that didn’t unseat the sadness in his eyes. If there was even such a sadness—he’d replayed the memory in his mind so many times it had become embellished and worn.

“Not to worry, my lord,” Elizabeth assured him. Ben glanced towards the clock on the mantle—her period of respite was over and she was due in the kitchens to help prepare the night’s meal.

“Thank you for listening,” Ben said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

Elizabeth gave him a timid smile, then tucked her sewing under her arm and hurried away to the scullery.

  
  
  


That night, Ben was ready. Under the guise of recuperation, he had located Lord Hux’s chambers, pretending to hobble around after the servants bringing his washed clothes to his rooms. At every turn he was sure he was being watched, that his plan was known, but after a two fearful days he decided his fears were unfounded. From there he had managed to pass by when no one was watching and attempted to pick the lock. It took many frustrating tries but at last he managed the feat twice in a row and was satisfied.

Then came the simple matter of deciding how he would die.

This step of his plan took the longest to resolve. At first it seemed simple—smothering him with a pillow or any suitable object on hand seemed the simplest and least suspicious, not to mention the most merciful. But therein lay the problem: Ben did not want to be merciful.

He considered cutting his throat but discarded this as well for the same reason. Even if he woke for mere moments before his death, such a fate was far too lenient.

For a wild moment Ben considered strangling him, either with an implement—a sheet, say—or with his bare hands. The thought of wringing every last spasm from his devilish body was tempting to say the least. But even this seemed lacking.

Gradually the answer came, becoming more and more elaborate with every iteration. Ben had always hoped the reason for his terrible wickedness would be revealed, that he could see why God allowed the devil that drove him to such evil, and now he had. He would tear him apart, paint God’s righteous fury on him in his own blood as he still lived. He had always been merciful towards his others, killing them before enacting his demon’s gruesome whims on their still forms, but Armitage deserved no such mercy.

All he would need was his knife and his hands.

As soon as darkness fell he prepared himself, dressing in his darkest clothes and concealing his father’s knife in his belt. He had ascertained already the routine of the servants around the castle at night, but it never hurt to be cautious.

As soon as it struck midnight, Ben went to the door of his chambers and gently pushed it open. The old iron hinges normally squeaked and squealed, but he pushed it open slowly enough that the sound was not as audible. Doubt had crept into his mind, silent and wormlike, but his pulse quickened at each step he took and he could feel the uncertainty wavering at his core.

The corridors were dark and eerily silent, lit only by the dim light from the moon filtering through the windows. Ben’s every sense was on its highest alert, each whisper of sound or flicker of movement registering as a piercing scream. He crept down the empty halls, down the winding stairs, each footstep soft and slow, through another set of maze-like twists and turns. More than once he made the wrong turn in the dark, unfamiliar statues peering at him through the gloom like gargoyles come to life.

By the time he had at last reached the lonely stretch of hallway that preceded Lord Hux’s, his heart was hammering in his chest and his grip was tight and sweaty on the handle of his dagger. He rounded the corner—

A ghostly apparition blazed at the end of the hall.

Ben stumbled back, terror flaring in his chest. The pale figure—half obscured by shadow—stretched out an arm and glided towards him. He could just make out lips and a gaping void where the eyes should be before he felt something brush by his leg—

Too late he realized it was a suit of armor. His arm caught on it and it began to fall. In a split second as he struggled for balance he realized with panic that it would fall to the ground with a great crash, waking everyone—he would be caught with his knife, stalking Armitage’s chambers at night—

The apparition’s ghostly hands caught the suit just in time, hauling it upright with nothing but a soft groan. Frozen with terror, Ben could only watch as the ghost raised its pale outstretched arm, pointing with a single finger as if to say, _Go._

Ben ran. He ran down the maze of corridors and doors and statues and he ran up the winding stairs and he ran down the straight corridor and did not stop until he’d burst back through his chambers’ door and had bolted it firmly in place.

For a moment he sagged against the door, relief and fear pounding through his veins in equal measure. His breathing was ragged, his torso aching as if he’d been run through anew, a muscle in his calf sore and aching.

He felt deeply, profoundly lost. He had been so sure of God’s will, but the ghost had been a sign as sure as the star of Bethlehem. He could feel the demon curling around him, its scaly tail around his chest, blinding his eyes.

Ben dropped to his knees, pressing his face to his clasped hands, bowing to the floor. When the first light scattered across the flagstones, he was still in desperate prayer.

  
  
  
  


“Ben! So glad to see you’re up and about.” Armitage smiled, as if he’d done Ben a personal favor. His hair was plaited and lay gleaming over one shoulder; he looked resplendent, like Lucifer. “Come, I was just about to take breakfast.”

He looped an arm in Ben’s, knocking his slim hip against Ben’s side, and started off towards the sumptuous chamber where he liked to take his tea. Ben startled guiltily at the touch but allowed himself to be led, his heart fluttering weakly in his chest. Did he know—? Could he? He was sure that if Armitage knew of his plan he would kill him immediately.

“Are you well enough to ride?” Armitage asked suddenly, knifing through Ben’s thoughts. “I’m going for a ride this afternoon, I want you to come with me.”

Ben swallowed. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Excellent,” Armitage said, and gave Ben a thin smile. “Oh and don’t forget, we’re meeting my mother next week at her country home. She’ll want to speak with you, I’m sure.”

Next week. Unless it was a ploy, Armitage intended to keep him alive at least that long. “I see.”

“Oh, don’t be so dour,” Armitage said, pouting his full lips and tugging at Ben’s arm. “If it pleases you, we can bring along the Bible today and you can read a little to me. We’ll have a little devotional. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Ben muttered a non-committal noise that apparently seemed positive enough to Armitage, because he pushed no further. A moment later they were in the study; Ben did his best not to think about all the Hux ancestors scowling down at them as they sat down to eat.

“Poached eggs and sausage, my lords,” Elizabeth said with a curtsy, her brown eyes fixed worriedly on Armitage, where he lounged at the head of the table admiring his reflection in the polished tea set.

“It’s lovely, thank you,” Ben said as Armitage gave a faint sneer, spearing a sausage daintily on his fork and taking it rather suggestively in his mouth. He caught Ben flush at the indecent act and grinned.

“Did you know,” he said, deliberately ignoring Elizabeth as she squirmed, anxiously awaiting dismissal, “that our Prince is entirely mad?”

“He is?” Ben said, eyebrows raising.

Armitage nodded, the movement slightly smug. “I’ve met him. Absolutely insane. Probably a godless heathen, too,” he added, sounding far too pleased. “I await his reign with great interest. Poor Henry VII is looking so sickly these days, after all. And the older one, Arthur, died so soon.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ben said, aghast. What he was saying was treason, or worse. Was there absolutely nothing he held sacred?

Armitage favored him with the patronizing look one would give a child. “Don’t be an infant, Ben. Everyone knows the only interesting thing old Henry did was manage to claim the throne. What I _would_ give a fair bit of gold to know is whether old Arthur and Catherine ah, _consummated_ their marriage before his death. She’s rumored to be marrying good prince Henry next, isn’t that just scandalous?”

Ben bristled at the implication. Catherine was the youngest daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, the regents of Spain, and highly regarded in the Spanish court. “Princess Catherine is a godly woman. I’m sure that if she marries Prince Henry it will be entirely in good faith.”

“Of course,” Armitage said, sounding wholly insincere, and bit rather discretely into an egg. “Well do eat, Ben, I won’t have you collapsing of hunger on my watch.”

Ben glowered but turned his attention to the food laid out for them. He piled a few sausages onto his plate, blushing again, and spooned a pair of eggs into his bowl. “You have no faith in people,” he said, being sure to take his knife and fork and cut into his sausages properly. “You always see the worst in them.”

“Ah, there you are wrong, Ben darling,” Armitage said breezily, giving his fork a casual wave. “I have no faith at all. Save, perhaps, in myself. Were I to compliment myself I would say I see things exactly as they are.”

“You see only the temporal world,” Ben countered, wolfing down a few bites of sausage at once. “Not the eternal one. This world is the illusion. Only what is God’s will last.”

Armitage gave an airy laugh that was simultaneously chilling and mocking. “Do you actually believe that, Ben? Don’t you find it awfully convenient that your wonderful bishops mention this as soon as the collection till comes round?”

Ben stiffened, mashing his sausages with his fork. “Corruption doesn’t disprove the gospel. Man is fallen, prey to the weaknesses of this world. God is eternal.”

Armitage’s bemused smile gained a sharper edge. “And what worldly weaknesses are you prey to, Ben?”

Ben felt his face burn, the acid edge of fear. “Pride, Gluttony,” he said, his voice barely trembling at all. “The same as anyone else. I am always working to overcome my fleshly shortcomings.”

“Just pride?” Armitage asked, feigning surprise, a smile curling indolently on his lips. “Not, say, Lust? You seem like a lusty young man, Ben. Good hot-blooded Spaniard. Nice Christian man ready to sow your seeds and add arrows to God’s quiver. Doesn’t he seem lusty to you, Elizabeth? Do you have to fight to keep his hands off you, pretty thing like you?”

Elizabeth looked plainly terrified, staring ashen-faced from Ben to Armitage, brown eyes wide in terror. “I—I—couldn’t say, my lord,” she stammered, adding a perfunctory curtsy as if to excuse her equivocation.

“Well, I can,” Armitage said, with the self-satisfied smirk of a fox with a fat fish in its mouth. “I think little Ben here is lying.”

Ben’s face burned, even the tips of his ears searing with heat. “I don’t know—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t,” Armitage said, his voice mocking and sharp. “Are you afraid to admit that your lust is for the wrong thing? Or shall we say the wrong, ah, sex?”

“Are the eggs to your liking, my lord?” Elizabeth asked suddenly. “The cook had a right hassle getting them from the farms this morning—“

“ _Quiet,_ ” Hux snapped, and Elizabeth fell silent immediately, looking deflated as if he’d choked the air from her. “Tell me, Ben. What are your sins?”

Ben had frozen in place, staring at Armitage in dull horror. His ears rang and his skin buzzed; the silence hang heavy in the air, oppressive. He tried and failed to swallow, his body obeying none of his commands.

“Well?” Armitage hissed. “Tell us, Ben.” His slim fingers gripped the table’s edge, as if to dig into the lacquered wood; he leaned over and fixed his gaze on Ben, looming over him like a bird of prey. He could feel Elizabeth’s softer eyes on him as well, almost beseeching. Ben’s eyes flicked briefly towards the doors, but they were across the room and nearer Armitage than himself and he knew he couldn’t make it.

“I—“ Ben started, but his words stuck in his throat. “I—“

“I’ll make it easy for you, Ben, darling,” Hux said, his voice going soft and silky. “If you’re a good, upstanding Christian boy who has entirely wholesome love for the, ah, fairer sex, say yes. If not, hold your tongue.” He smiled around his sharp teeth. “And remember, God is listening. God knows the _truth,_ Ben. And so do you. How pleased do you think He will be if you lie?”

Ben opened his mouth to say yes but the thought of God hearing his lies caused him visions of hellfire. There was nothing against confession—confession was the first step to absolution. Which was the greater sin? Which did he _want_ to say? He thought of the lady at Lord Devan’s ball and no, he couldn’t call that wholesome, not out loud and before God.

Tears stung at his eyes and Ben blinked, turning his face down as the two impulses warred within him. There was no answer, no escape. Either way, Ben was wicked, desperately wicked, trapped.

“Thank you, Ben,” Armitage said softly, and Ben caught Elizabeth’s expression crumple when he did not protest. “Your silence has been most illuminating.” To Elizabeth he said, coldly, “Dismissed.”

Elizabeth cast one last beseeching look Ben’s way and, when he did not respond, hurried away, blinking rapidly as if against tears.

Armitage gave Ben a saucy wink, then stretched catlike in his chair. Ben felt a nauseating urge to strangle him with his own fiery braid. “Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold. The sausage truly is delicious.”

   

  
  
  


“I used to play at this creek as a boy,” Armitage commented as they rode past a burbling brook, a good few feet across and not very deep. It was canopied by an overarching curtain of trees, surrounded by a pleasant grassy bank. His pale eyes seemed far away, his white lashes drawn down over them. He was wearing white shirtsleeves that billowed in the breeze, white breeches and black gloves and boots that stood out on his otherwise milky body like coal; he and Matilda seemed to blend together, endless white. His hair had started to stray from the braid, wisping around his face.

“Where are we going?” Ben asked, unable to think of a suitable reply.

“Nowhere particular,” Armitage said in a breezy way that made Ben suspect he was lying. “Might stop in on a vassal of mine. While we’re out.” He offered Ben a slim smile. “After all, we can’t have our inferiors getting too comfortable, can we?”

Ben said nothing, thinking of how Lady Organa would seethe at his statement. He privately found himself agreeing, despite her endless rhetoric. All of Christian society was built on hierarchy, pyramidal structures of homage and fealty, a web of trust. She sought to tear down that very web, the fabric of society itself—and what would replace it? The chaos of Wat Tyler and his Kentish rebels? The revolt of the French Jaquerie, the wanton destruction of property and societal wealth?

“You don’t say very much, do you,” Armitage said after Ben remained awkwardly silent for a moment too long. He cast Ben a sideways glance. “I don’t mind that.” He smoothed his hair reflexively with a delicate hand, crucifix ring catching in the sunlight. He gave a calm, chilling smile. “I’ll get through that thick skull of yours, Ben. I’ll scoop out your thoughts like meat out of a clam.”

Ben fought back an impulse of thick rage and cold fear and said nothing, did nothing. He twitched Esperanza’s reins lightly against her neck, anything to keep himself quiet.

“Have you ever eaten a clam?” Armitage inquired, as with idle curiosity.

“No,” Ben said.

“They’re lovely,” Armitage told him, and shifted slightly in Matilda’s dark, beautifully-polished saddle. Whoever cared for it had worked the leather until it shone like the surface of a deep pond; Ben found his gaze sliding up the saddle to the tight waist of Armitage’s breeches, his slim hips, his proud, erect carriage—

Ben failed to maneuver Esperanza around a hole in the road and she stumbled slightly, jostling him out of his reverie. Armitage shot him an amused smirk, as if reading the cause of his distraction.

Blessedly, they spent the rest of the ride in silence, Armitage staring off into the molting, darkening woods as if hoping to catch sight of some sort of apparition between the trees. Ben attempted to map out the road twisting before them in his head, in hopes that the knowledge might aid in his eventual escape. Mitaka had taken a map, he knew, but he had watched Mitaka’s things go up in smoke in the courtyard from his window, as if Lord Hux knew he would be watching for it.

He was never much good at maps but he did his best, noting unique trees or posts and trying to pin them together in some sort of sequence. The problem was that the English countryside turned out to be terribly dull, if rustically beautiful, and gave little that aided his memory.

“Where are we?” Ben asked, hoping for any morsel of information that might help him navigate the countryside.

Armitage’s slim shoulder lifted in a shrug, his blazingly white coat shifting over his back. “I won’t have your whining when we’re out to enjoy ourselves. You must enjoy picnics.”

Ben tried to recall if he had ever been on a picnic, and failed. There was a hazy recollection from his youth, before Han had left and Leia had become ever-involved in the court. “I’m not sure.”

“You will,” Armitage said, and Ben briefly wondered if he was even aware how imperious he sounded. “Ah, there’s the lovely little meadow.” He flicked Matilda’s reins briefly and lead her into a lush, verdant field of green. Ben followed, breathing in the smell of the trees and dismounting after Armitage, laying down in the grass and basking gratefully in the sun.

“You’re very eager,” Armitage commented idly, removing the sizeable basket Madam Eoinne’s servants had given him. “Now get up, you’re going to get your new clothes all wet.”

Shooing Ben aside with his boot, Armitage removed a woven cloth from the basket and spread it over the dewy grass, sitting down primly at the center and unpacking the food. Ben’s mouth watered at the sight; it had been many hours since breakfast and he was still feeling weak and famished from his recovery.

“Is that goat’s cheese?” he asked, pointing to a cloth bundle in Armitage’s hands.

“I believe so,” Armitage replied, and a worrying mischievous spark gleamed in his eyes. He unwrapped it and took out a small, blunt knife and took off a slice and held it out on his palm.

Ben reached to accept it—

“Ah ah ah,” Armitage said, his face eerily still as his lips curled upwards. “With your mouth.”

“My mouth?” Ben blurted before he could stop himself. Did he mean—eat out of his hand? The thought made his cheeks burn; he wasn’t an animal to be fed and petted.

“I can put it in for you if that makes it easier,” Armitage said, and Ben flushed deeper, his stomach curling at the thought. For the first time, Armitage seemed almost at ease, or at least less liable to lash out at any second.

A wicked idea came to mind. If Ben killed him here, he could claim that they were attacked by animals. No one would be any the wiser.

“Take your gloves off, first,” Ben said, pushing down a curl of his lips and lowering his eyes in apparent surrender. “I—I’ll take it from your fingers.”

If he had any weakness, it was Ben’s submission. Ben doubted he could truly get the better of him now, as he was armed only with a knife and Armitage could easily escape on horseback. But if he could earn his trust, convince him somehow to move further into the forest—

“I’m waiting, Ben,” Armitage said archly, crooking his slender fingers in a summons. “Are you hungry, or not?”

Ben wet his lips and opened his mouth. The morsel sat on the tips of his white hands. He took the fingers and proffered cheese in his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue at the explosion of salty flavor. He sucked at Armitage’s hand to remove all of the food, knowing Armitage would likely complain if he let any trace remain.

When he at last dared to look up, not lifting his head, Armitage’s expression was oddly blank, only the very periphery of his high cheekbones tinged pink.

“More?” he queried, tone solicitous, as if asking Ben about the weather.

“Yes, please,” Ben said, keeping his eyes lowered. A piece of bread and cheese made its way to his mouth and he took it dutifully, chewing slowly and swallowing. He could feel Armitage’s gaze burning into the back of his neck, the other man’s slightly hitched breathing as he lapped the tip of his tongue against his bare skin. Such a deviant weakness, Ben thought with scorn, ignoring the tight coil of his stomach as Armitage’s fingers touched his tongue.

Lazily, indolently, Armitage fed him his half of the picnic, giving him that strange, cold smile as Ben nibbled on sandwiches and fruit and sweets, his shoulders aching and his pride smarting. Slowly, inch by inch, Armitage came closer, as if a skittish, wary animal of prey, eyes pinned on Ben hyperaware of every movement.

Ben would not be able to catch and subdue him now. He could see Armitage’s free hand flutter towards the dagger at his belt often and knew that should he make for his own he would hardly be able to get to it first. His teeth rubbed along the bone of Armitage’s fingers and he realized he could bite—Lando always loved to tell him that biting off a human finger was as easy as biting into a carrot—

The risk of getting stabbed was too high. Most men would be too shocked to react but Ben guessed Armitage’s instinct would be to go for his knife, not scream or panic.

Instead of raising to his lips, Armitage’s bare hand ghosted under his chin. “A lovely creature you are,” he said, almost carelessly. “Has anyone told you that?”

Ben did not answer. The truth of it was, no one had. His mother had always assured him that he would _grow into_ his ears, his ungainly body, but he never did. He had no female acquaintances that he could bear to talk to for any length of time, other than Rey, and most men did not dare be as wicked as Lord Hux.

“In a homely way,” Armitage continued in silky tones, tracing a finger up Ben’s jaw. Ben felt the sudden sting of tears and could not imagine why. “But I find myself charitable.” His hand drifted down, down Ben’s neck and to his chest, fingering the first button of his doublet.

Ben’s breath caught in his throat, his chest constricted with panic. He couldn’t—he couldn’t be allowed to—

“Like a big dog,” Armitage whispered, and Ben could only stare in frozen horror and terrible indecision as Armitage’s slim hand worked down his chest, undoing the buttons with lithe deftness. “Always shivering or cowering, eating out of my hand. Is that what you are, Ben? A big, dumb dog?”

Ben heard himself make a choked noise as his shirt and doublet came free, baring his still-sensitive chest to the soft warm breeze and Armitage’s cold hands.

Armitage’s touch was light but Ben shuddered nonetheless as his finger swirled indecently and dangerously close to his nipple. Just how depraved was the man? He had—and here Ben felt himself pale at the thought—bedded a priest, after all. A priest! Ben’s thoughts strayed a moment to imagine, quite breathlessly, the horrible torment he and sinners of his kind would be subject to in Hell.

“Down, doggy,” Armitage whispered, and his palm pressed firmly to Ben’s chest. Ben yelped in surprise; in a moment he was on his back, Armitage’s slim hips on his own—his own pulse quickened, Armitage’s sharp hips, the press of his long legs around Ben’s own.

“Don’t move,” Armitage commanded and pulled Ben’s knees towards him. Ben, too afraid and shocked to do anything else, allowed himself to be positioned so that his legs jutted up into the air and his heels were flat on the grass, ankles pressed together.

Evidently satisfied, Armitage leaned back against his thighs and removed a skin of wine from the basket, taking a dainty sip and swallowing with a contented sigh, the wine staining his lips red.

“You can’t expect me to just sit here for you,” Ben growled, craning his neck to face Armitage fully, the game of trust momentarily forgotten in flash of pride.

The boot of Armitage’s heel jutted under Ben’s chin and he whimpered at the pressure to his throat. “Quiet,” Armitage sneered. His expression hardened suddenly and his palm dug viciously between Ben’s legs; Ben whimpered again and twisted his hips weakly, trying to throw Armitage off.

“You can stay quiet and still like a good boy, or you can bark and crawl your way home,” Armitage said, and Ben knew he couldn’t possibly make good on the threat. He opened his mouth to object—

Armitage’s fingers curled cruelly around him and Ben’s whines rose to a cry. He stilled instantly, lying limply on the wet grass, spitting the dirt from his mouth and trying to steel his expression into something more stoic. He failed, feeling his lips trembling, his eyes watering, his face flushing with the heat of embarrassment and defeat.

“Rutting against me like a mongrel,” Armitage said, disdain etched onto his pale, angular face. He took another delicate sip of wine. “Have you truly no shame?”

Ben whined in protest but did not dare speak. His heart fairly pounded in his chest, pulse fluttering lightly in his neck. He wasn’t— _he wouldn’t_ —

In the end, he lay there and tried not to squirm as Armitage sat daintily perched against his legs, eating in small, slow birdlike bites, coldly content. Ben could not tell if the slight flush of his cheeks was due to the wine or the sun—he had to imagine his deathly pallor would not take kindly to the light. After such a long while it was hard for Ben not to notice that his legs were very shapely, slender and delicate like the rest of him.

Then, abruptly, he sat up and stretched, replaced the wine into the basket, and stood, looming over Ben like a statue. In all white he blazed like a pagan god.

The next few days passed uneventfully. Ben soon found out that Armitage’s activity at his arrival had been somewhat of an exception—he spent most of his time locked in his study, pouring over his books, dashing out correspondence as if he were the King of France. The most interaction he was spared was a few curt orders to report to Monsieur Armadi for more clothes fitting, a trial which Ben bore with great stoicism.

Largely ignored, and thus free to roam the castle at large, Ben set out in search of Elizabeth but found her strangely absent, or always at tasks. The few times he did catch her eye she looked away, shy or—Ben’s heart lurched—disappointed.

Lord Hux had made him lie. Couldn’t she understand?

Long at last, and truly desperate, Ben made his way to the library, creeping silently in hopes to avoid any other soul that might be nearby might not see him. He knew the Bible was kept there and hoped to make use of his idle time to study Scripture, since all his attempts to be reunited with his sword for practice were summarily rebuffed.

He had just found the good book and had tiptoed silently towards the armchairs at the fireplace when—

“You!” Ben accused, throwing the book on the seat and pointing an accusing finger. “You’re the ghost!”

The figure startled and stood to bolt, but Ben grabbed their arm and pulled, causing them to stagger as if featherlight and nearly topple before Ben caught them, steadying them with a hand on their other arm.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Ben demanded as the little figure huddled away, face turned far from him. He felt the soft body shudder and realized with a hot flash of shame that he had terrified the young man.

“Here, sit down,” Ben said, his tones more gentle, and the ghost did not resist as he guided them back to the chair. He noted the dull orange hair, matted and wispy, the unforgettably pale skin. “I apologize,” Ben said, in the same low tone. “I have frightened you terribly. Will you forgive me?”

With great hesitation, the ghost nodded.

“What’s your name?” Ben asked, letting go of their arm and feeling rather buffoonish. “My name is Benjamin. Ben Organa.”

“It’s...it’s uh, it’s Declan,” the ghost said, still facing away and trembling. His voice was soft and almost a whisper, spoken very rapidly with terrible haltingness. “O’Techallanagh was my, uh, m-mother’s maiden name but, uh, no one really can, ah, say it so, mostly they, uh, the s-servants that is, they call me, uh, Techie.”

“Techie,” Ben repeated, trying not to frown at his confounding mode of speech. “Do you live here?”

Techie gave a weak, fluttering laugh. “You could, uh, say that.”

Ben clamped down on his mounting frustration. “Are you...” he cast about for inspiration, “Lord Hux’s ward?”

“Ward?” Techie repeated, his head lifting slightly. He gave another breathy chuckle, still facing obstinately away. “I’m his, uh b-brother.”

“His brother?” Ben repeated, dumbfounded. Was he quite right in the head? Surely Armitage would have mentioned a _brother_ by now.

As if sensing his disbelief, Techie’s thin shoulders folded further around his chest, his profile almost miniscule.

“All right,” Ben said quickly, not wanting to upset the delicate boy further. “So your mother isn’t Lord Armitage’s mother?”

“No,” Techie said instantly, then hunched down again. “My m-mother’s, uh, she’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said.

“I, uh, killed her,” Techie said, and as Ben’s horrified surprise registered he added quickly, “Childbirth.”

Ben nodded. He had seen many women in the village lost to childbirth. Leia had given the village midwives patronage and that had helped, but it was still a near-pagan art, full of mysticism and terror and the will of God. “So you’re half-brothers.”

“Not, uh, full brothers,” Techie agreed, his face still turned far away. Ben opened his mouth to push further, to ask more about Lord Armitage— “I’m sorry I followed you.”

“Why did you follow me?” Ben asked, curiosity about Armitage overridden for a moment. If he had guessed his plan coming to Lord Hux’s chambers at night—if he had informed his brother of them—his hand strayed towards his belt where his dagger lay hidden. He didn’t want to harm the boy but if he had to—

Techie gave an unconvincing shrug. “You’re, uh, you’re new,” he said. “We uh, don’t get a lot of uh, visitors very much so, it was, uh, a s-surprise.”

“Why at night?” Ben demanded, letting a sharp edge slip through in his tone. Techie startled, jumping around as if Ben had stuck a pin in him.

Ben took in the dark band tied around his eyes shock and with a sick sort of pity. The boy was blind.

A fluttering pale hand rose to the band, as if Techie could feel Ben’s gaze there. “I, uh, well, as you can see, uh, it doesn’t really matter much to me, if uh, it’s dark. And there’s no people, uh, around at night so uh, I can go where I, uh, p-please.”

“I see,” Ben said, and felt immediately worse. He could not hurt a cripple. He had to hope that Techie had not even known it was him who had been there that night. It did not matter if he was believed—even the insinuation would give Armitage excuse to visit awful punishment upon him.

“I won’t tell,” Techie blurted suddenly and Ben startled, feeling as if he had plucked the very thought from his head. Techie reached out with canny precision and felt for Ben’s hand. “Please, please don’t hurt my b-brother,” he said, almost too fast and too quietly to be heard. “Please, we’ll all be uh lost without him.”

Ben could not imagine a single reason why anyone would be lost without Armitage, but did not say so. “How did you lose your sight?”

“It was, uh, an accident,” Techie said, too quickly, pulling back as if scalded by the brief contact. “An, uh, bad accident. Very uh, very—well, uh, my brother—he didn’t mean, uh, you have to understand he didn’t mean to, uh, hurt me or anything but, uh, we were outside in the, uh, woods and—it was an accident.”

Ben felt a draft of cold that did not come from the room. He watched Techie bite nervously at his cruelly dry lips and bile rose in his throat. “An accident. I see.”

“Yes,” Techie babbled. “All a terrible, uh, accident, and it was just very soon after uh, my brother’s uh, m-mother, uh, went away and uh, well, you know, he was uh, distracted and, uh, it happened. It was all very, uh, quick and I don’t really uh, r-remember it so I, uh, don’t really uh, talk about it, all that much.”

Ben swallowed past the rising lump in his throat and hated Armitage even more. “I’m sorry, Techie,” he said, as softly as he could. “That was a terrible thing to happen to you.”

Techie gave an awkward, jumpy shrug. “I don’t particularly, uh, mind, you know, it was, uh, best for everyone, you, uh, s-see my b-brother was always more, uh, fit to inherit so, uh, he did and uh, I wouldn’t have liked it anyway, you see, I, uh, really hate t-talking to people and, uh, there’s so much of, uh that kind of thing—I don’t uh mean I hate uh talking to everyone I uh like talking to you for example it’s uh, not so bad I just, uh, don’t like normal people,” he added in a terrible jumble of words.

Ben smiled awkwardly over what the boy had just said, fully aware he could not see the expression. “I take no offense.”

“Good,” Techie said, then cringed back, as if immediately regretting speaking. He turned away again and Ben wondered if his pallid complexion had gone a bit red. “Can I, uh, see you? I mean, uh, touch your f-face? It’s, uh, how p-people like me, uh, see faces, I uh, really like seeing faces but, uh, most people don’t like—“

“Go ahead,” Ben said, then when Techie hesitated, added, “Please.”

“It might, uh, make it easier to uh, close your eyes,” Techie said. “People, uh, usually they uh don’t like—“

“It will be fine,” Ben assured him, then reached out and took Techie’s hand and moved forward so he could bring it to his face. Techie’s hands were smaller and softer than his brothers, tapered but worn with calluses and cuts and scrapes, ostensibly from navigating the labyrinthine castle.

Techie’s fingers shuddered lightly over his skin, tracing over the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, his lips, his chin, even his brows and the contours of his eyes as he let them close. At one point his fingers strayed into his hair and hastily withdrew, Techie looking very flustered.

At last he withdrew, leaving Ben’s skin crawling with strange, buzzing energy.

“You, uh, you look very nice,” Techie stammered, then tucked his hand back under his legs. “Thank—thank you for letting me. And, uh, your hair is very nice too, so you, uh, know. Soft.”

“Thank you,” Ben said, looking away himself.

Techie started suddenly, his entire body tensing, and Ben feared for a moment he’d done something to alienate him, or that he was ill. “He’s coming,” he hissed, then grabbed Ben’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “You mustn’t kill him,” he pleaded. “You can’t kill him, I—we—we uh, we need him, otherwise they’d take the land, we’d be sent away the uh servants and me—B-Ben please—“

“Don’t worry,” Ben replied, as quickly as he could.

“Promise me,” Techie demanded, his grip tightening. “Promise me!”

“I can’t—“

“I know what he did,” Techie whispered, almost too rapidly to be understood. “I uh know what he does—did—but please you uh can’t kill him it would uh cause more harm than good, you care about uh Elizabeth do you not? The uh entire f-fief depends on him as much as we uh f-fear it please you must—“

Clipped footsteps sounded on the flagstones that even Ben could identify as Armitage’s. He turned anxiously towards the door, ready to shield Techie should he have to, but when he turned back to hasten the boy along he was already gone, swift and fleeting.

“Talking to yourself, Ben?” Armitage’s voice sneered and Ben spun around, finding Armitage lounging catlike over the top of the high, sumptuous armchair. He wore an expression of amusement and his slim nose had a troubling smudge of black ink on it. He wore only loose shirtsleeves, no doublet or tunic, his hair plaited loosely.

“I—well—“ Ben stammered, reaching for the Bible and trying to appear occupied. His dislike for the man raged within, rearing perceptively.

“Don’t worry, I’m only a little jealous of your obsession with the good book,” Armitage whispered, carding his fingers through Ben’s hair, thumbing the curls. “What are you reading now, little Ben? Do you see yourself in the trials of Job? The persecution of the apostles? Tell me all your pains, Ben. I want them all.”

“I—I want to go home,” Ben blurted out, then felt the now-familiar sting of tears in his eyes at the spoken truth.

“Like little Israel in Egypt,” Armitage said, his voice low husky, like a lover’s. He cradled Ben’s chin possessively in one gloved hand. “Held captive by that cruel Pharaoh. Is that how you feel, Ben?”

“I want my family,” Ben choked out, unable to stop the tears now. “I want to have things the way they were.” _I want the pain to stop, the horror._ He would gladly join his Uncle Luke in the monastery now, if only it meant he could be home. “I want God—“

“You feel as if God has abandoned you,” Armitage said, and Ben choked on another sob. His thumb played over Ben’s lips, the leather light and soft against him, the touch nothing at all like his little brother’s, nothing at all. “I’m afraid to say He has, Ben. God has delivered you to me. Like Daniel in the den of lions. Except nothing—“ his fist tightened and Ben yelped at the sudden yank on his hair, “will save you from being torn apart.”

Ben whimpered at the pain but held his tongue, unwilling to anger him or provoke him further. He rebelled against Armitage’s message but it rang so true—God had not yet delivered him. The doubt came all to easily, all too human—Ben despaired at his mortal flesh but could not help that cold sliver separate him and the promises of God.

“There, there,” Armitage said, his grip slacking slightly. “You’ve become such a good pet, my sweet. So quiet and willing.” His hand slipped down to rest on Ben’s shoulder. “Crying again, I see. Are you going to be a good boy for me, baby Ben?”

Tears cold on his face, the fire before him blurred into a roaring mass of heat and light, Ben nodded.

“Good,” Armitage crooned, patting Ben’s cheek fondly. He straightened, his fingers slipping out of Ben’s hair. “I’ll be in my study if you need me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: one MC tortures another sort of with his consent but not exactly, knifeplay and overall brutality, another character dies, implied (past) cannibalism, the Bible verses are abused, Latin is quoted (if you’ve taken as much Latin as I have that alone might send you into cold sweats), reference to eye trauma but none shown, terrible blind etiquette.
> 
> The Latin Ben starts muttering as Mitaka dies is the Apostle’s Creed, one of the elements of the last rites. A really poor translation by me is as follows: “I trust in the almighty Father God, creator of the sky and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His Son in one, our Lord, who was made from the Holy Spirit, born from the Virgin Mary.” He’s not actually qualified to give the last rites as he’s not a priest, but that’s the least of his problems honestly
> 
> (also the translation that Armie reads Rev 19:2 from is the King James and hasn’t been commissioned yet but......I was too lazy to find a contemporary translation) last disclaimer: Lemon Verbena wasn’t imported from Africa until the 17th century, but Armie gets to smell nice anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More beautiful art, this time by [darthky](http://darthky.tumblr.com), which you can see [here](http://darthky.tumblr.com/post/153359956388/a-little-cartoon-based-off)! Special thanks again to our long-suffering and talented beta/enabler, [horatiosroom](https://horatiosroom.tumblr.com)!<3

**** It was then Ben realized what he had to do.

After dinner—which Ben received in his place by the fireside—he made his way to Armitage’s study. It was far away on the other side of the castle, isolated from the bustle and din of the kitchens. He came to a stop before the door, checking the pocket of his belt to be sure the little vial he had stolen from the doctor’s bag was still there. Steeling himself, he reached up and gave the door a sharp rap.

The door opened and Armitage’s irate face became immediately visible. His expression softened to surprise when he recognized Ben.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his usual haughtiness gone from his voice. He looked exhausted, somehow, a darkish shade under his eyes.

Ben held up a the fancy, wrapped bottle with his best imitation of the Organa smirk. “Didn’t I mention Lady Organa sent me with this fine bottle of Amontillado?”

Armitage blinked, and for a moment Ben feared he would smell deception and refuse. Then he smiled, the expression failing to hide his surprise. “You hadn’t.”

Lady Organa had done no such thing. Lando had, supplying him with a few bottles of his own “special” brand, which was more whiskey than actual Amontillado and sold on illicit trade routes for a hefty sum.

“It’s excellent,” Ben said and stepped inside before Armitage could stop him. “You can’t overwork yourself,” he said chidingly, going over to the desk where a string of burned-down candles and numerous bound tomes lay. His dinner lay untouched at a side table. Ben shut each of the books and gestured Armitage to the fireside, where a new fire blazed. “Do you have goblets?”

“Well, yes,” Armitage said, watching him go about the room, oddly immobile. “In the cabinet. No, that one there. Yes.”

Ben smiled as Armitage’s pale gaze drifted down from his face to his shirtfront, where he had very purposefully unlaced it so that it hung loose to expose his chest. He turned and knelt to retrieve the fine silver goblets, feeling the other man’s hungry gaze on his back. He poured them both drinks and crossed the room to hand Armitage a goblet.

“Do sit,” he said, gesturing to the armchair opposite him, and sat down, taking a sip. Armitage could not think he was being poisoned—Ben would drink from the other goblet to prove that point if necessary.

Armitage complied, settling down with feline grace. He arched an eyebrow. “Care to explain your sudden sociability, Ben?”

Ben glanced away, purposefully. “Well I...I can’t really say.”

“Can’t you?” Armitage asked, smelling out Ben’s apparent weakness like a rat to meat. “Do you want to pick up where we left off this afternoon, is that it?”

“I—I just want to share a drink with you,” Ben said, letting himself flush slightly. “Is that so abhorrent to you, my lord?”

There. At the epithet the tip of Armitage’s pink tongue darted between his lips, a hungry gleam to his pale eyes.  _ My lord. _ “Not at all,” Armitage drawled slowly, leaning back with apparent effort. “I do so love your company, Ben.”

“I have...been growing to enjoy yours as well,” Ben said carefully, attempting to sound just hesitant enough as to be credible. He summoned up an expression of conflict, of confusion, letting the implication carry its own weight.

“Of course,” Armitage purred, stirring slightly in his chair. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, reaching out to ghost a hand briefly over Ben’s knee. “I feel it too.”

The hunger in his eyes was no longer just a gleam.

“Try the wine,” Ben suggested, and Armitage gave a  small almost gloating smile.

“Will you be a dear and give mine a little sip first? It’s not that I don’t  _ trust  _ you, Ben, but...” he trailed off, and tutted softly. “Your track record is not the best, you naughty thing.”

Ben nodded and Armitage leaned over again to raise the goblet to his lips. Ben sipped obediently and swallowed, drinking until Armitage appeared satisfied. Together, they drank from their own goblets, eyeing each other over the silver rims.

“I don’t suppose you read,” Armitage said, stating more than asking.

“I do,” Ben replied. “I must say I have been following this Italian trend with some interest.”

This was a lie. Ben disliked these new Humanist writers with their earthly ideals and belief in the inherently sinful Man. If Petrarch or any of those daft fools had ever met Armitage—or, he thought somewhat bitterly, himself—they would dismiss all hope for mankind entirely. The only hope man had was through Christ.

But Luke had followed them with great interest, and Leia always groused that they would not go far enough, so he was inevitably forced to read the long winded drivel nonetheless.

“Have you had occasion to read  _ De Principatibus _ ?” Armitage asked, a false innocence in his tone.

“I have,” Ben said. He had found it a harsh but misguided treatise, missing the role of God to intercede in the state where man failed. Besides, he saw no reason to trust the author—a Niccolo Machiavelli—who was rotting in jail for dissidence.

“Thoughts?” Armitage asked lazily, taking another sip from his goblet.

“A cynical rabble-rouser,” Ben said dismissively. “Offensive in his insinuations.”

Armitage hummed in noncommittal agreement. “I must agree with him on one account, however,” he said, and Ben reflected inwardly that he and Machiavelli agreed on  _ many  _ counts. “Being feared is a necessary, often beautiful thing. But it is even more wonderful to be loved.”

Ben swallowed. Armitage watched him hawkishly for a reaction. His heart pounded in his chest; he felt as if he might burst. If he failed this moment—

“I—“ he halted. “I want to love you.”

For a terrible moment he thought he had been too forward as Armitage’s languid posture tensed. But then Armitage smiled, the genuine expression warming his icy countenance just slightly. He curled his fingers around his goblet and took a slow, sensuous sip. “Good.”

He stood and Ben felt his heartbeat speed up. He took a steadying gulp of Amontillado, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it went down, and tried not let his terror show as Armitage’s slender form loomed over him, that wild hunger smoldering just under the surface.

Armitage leaned over, his silky hair slipping off his shoulder and hanging in front of Ben’s face. Ben longed to reach out and touch it, to grab and yank and tear until he screamed.

Armitage placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder and to his complete surprise climbed onto his legs, folding his own around Ben’s and settling his weight in Ben’s lap. Up close Ben could see the pink in his cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin—the whiskey was hitting him harder than he could have foreseen.

“Come now, take a drink, Ben,” Armitage cooed, raising Ben’s goblet to his mouth and spilling a bit down Ben’s front. Obediently, Ben drank, feeling a little lightheaded when Armitage was finally satisfied. He poured them both new goblets and Ben noticed with mild shock that the bottle was nearly empty.

Armitage shoved Ben back in the chair, hands curled around his shoulders, and  made a throaty, feral sound. His hands trailed down Ben’s chest, Armitage’s pink tongue wetting his lips as he kneaded the muscle under Ben’s skin.

“So big and strong,” he whispered, slurring just slightly. Ben shivered as his hair brushed his face. “And all mine.” Wetness and heat lapped against his ear and Ben shuddered, to Armitage’s amusement. His eyes flickered shut as Armitage’s tongue pressed inside his ear, one cold hand slipping under his shirt—

Ben yelped in surprise and pain as Armitage gave his nipple a vicious pinch, stifling a whimper as he rolled it slowly between his slender fingers, working his hot mouth and lips down Ben’s neck and leaving a trail of cooling wetness and a powerful tingling that was overwhelmed by the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Ben heard himself whimper, again so deeply pathetic—

“Do you not like that, darling?” Armitage asked in honeyed tones, and to Ben’s surprise and relief he let go, rubbing the sensitive, smarting nub with his thumb. “Just say the word little Ben, I wouldn’t want you to start crying so soon. You really are such a crybaby, you know,” he said, and gave the tip of Ben’s nose a somewhat sloppy, wet kiss.

“Keep going,” Ben said in a shaky voice and Armitage  grinned wolvishly . Ben started in surprise as Armitage’s warm lips brushed against his own, sending a shower of sparks radiating  throgh his limbs and making his face heat considerably.

Armitage’s hips shifted against Ben and he hissed softly, feeling the pressure of the sharp-boned body against his own. Armitage pressed his lips to Ben’s again with a soft moan. Ben felt it against his own mouth, parting his lips as Armitage’s eager tongue pushed against his teeth. Armitage grabbed Ben’s jaw and nudged Ben’s mouth open with some gentleness, pushing in greedily and—

Ben snaked a hand to his belt and startled as Armitage’s hips rolled sharply against him, sending a deep throb  up his spine . Armitage moaned again as Ben sucked slightly on his tongue, letting him scrape his teeth around Ben’s lips as he shifted his hips more forcefully against Ben’s own.

“Good boy,” Armitage panted, his thin chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes blazing with colorless fire. “That’s my good boy  _ mmmmm  _ good—“

Ben’s fingers closed around the tiny vial and he withdrew his hand carefully as Armitage’s fingers dug into his hips. He extended his arm over the side of the chair and flicked the vial open with his thumb, nearly dropping it as Armitage thrust with particular violence and caused  him to bite into his own tongue. Blood welled in their mouths and they both groaned at the tantalizing flavor—

Ben’s hand found Armitage’s goblet abandoned on the side table and tipped the vial in just as Armitage sank his teeth into Ben’s lip. He groaned again and dropped the vial to the floor with a thrill of fear. Thankfully Armitage did not notice, one hand clenched around Ben’s bicep and the other snaking down to—

Ben gasped aloud as Armitage’s palm ground against his cock and he realized he was shamefully hard between them, straining against the other man’s equal wickedness. Armitage  gave a  victorious, bloodied sneer and pressed harder, pushing against him, curling his fingers like a vice around him and making Ben groan and pant, the animal sounds rising from him like he was possessed. He grabbed the thin waist and dug his fingers in, making Armitage moan wantonly and snap his hips more urgently against Ben’s own.

“Please,” Ben begged, his voice coming out cracked and ragged, thick with wicked need. Armitage  sneered impishly and Ben cried out as Armitage’s fingers dug cruelly into him, his other reaching blindly for his goblet—

Ben pushed the goblet into Armitage’s hand and watched as he raised it sloppily to his blood-reddened lips. Much of it spilled onto his rich doublet before he was able to swallow, but Armitage drained it and dropped it to the floor.

”It’s too hot,” he whined, his voice breathy and hoarse, and together they fumbled him clumsily out of the doublet and tossed it aside. He  gave a kittenish stretch, baring his snowy stomach, then began thrusting his palm more vigorously against Ben’s cock, making him gasp raggedly as hard waves of pleasure jolted violently through his body.

Armitage’s nose smashed into Ben’s cheek before he began biting hungrily at Ben’s lips and tongue, just enough to draw blood. Ben grabbed his narrow hips and pulled him forcefully towards him as Armitage pushed hard at his cock—

Cold steel bit at Ben’s throat and he reared back in reflexive terror, but Armitage seized a handful of his hair and  _ yanked,  _ drawing his head back until his neck was arched against the chair.

“Now now, baby Ben, don’t cry, but I suggest you hold very very still,” Armitage breathed, a wild, uncontrolled light dancing in his feverish eyes. “Otherwise, I promise you this knife is  _ very  _ sharp and it might just  _ slip—“ _

He turned the blade to the side, just a hair, and Ben whimpered as he felt it bite through his skin.

“ _ Shh,”  _ Armitage said and pressed a wet kiss to his cheek. The edge still bit into Ben’s neck; he could feel his pulse rushing madly, pumping the blood that was now oozing from the slight cut. “Now hold still while I give you your reward.”

Ben dug his fingers into the armchair as Armitage’s hand wriggled past his waistband and into his breeches, fighting every screaming instinct as deft fingers curled around him, pulling upwards in long, lazy strokes and lighting a terrible fire at the pit of his stomach that gnawed at his resolve, made him want to squirm, scream, writhe in his grip, beg for it to end and also for more. Blood trickled down his throat and Ben could feel his lungs and mind fluttering in panic, hardly daring to breathe or so much as twitch, the lack of air making the fire in his belly rage all the more—

“ _ Ben _ ,” Armitage panted and Ben could feel him going heavier in his lap. “Ben—Ben you’re so...Ben, I’m....what have you—?“

Armitage’s lips softened; he blinked, slowly, slackening in Ben’s lap. His knife wavered but did not fall; Ben hardly dared move with it still at his throat. Armitage’s eyes were hazy with laudanum, defocusing and refocusing rapidly as he fought against the unnatural sleep—

“You  _ did this _ ,” Armitage snarled and Ben slammed his arm into his chest, sending Armitage tumbling off his legs and onto the floor, his head hitting the flagstones and hair streaming around him like a banner.

Ben pushed his weak, shaking legs to stand just as Armitage struggled to his knees, fury painted on his face like their blood, knife clenched in one white-knuckled hand and murder in his blazing eyes. Armitage slashed clumsily at him and fell headfirst into the side table, sending their goblets and the bottle smashing to the floor.

 

 

”You  _ poisoned _ me, you fucking lout,” Armitage snarled and Ben seized his thin wrist as he launched himself towards him. Ben threw his weight into him and wrestled him to the floor, pinning him there as his struggles grew weaker and more futile until he lay bonelessly beneath him, still and peaceful as the Virgin Mary herself.

Ben kicked open the door to his chambers, tossing Armitage’s limp body onto the bed. He tucked the thin blade into his baldric—

“I’m sorry my lord,” a high, thin voice said. Ben looked up, blinked; Elizabeth stood shocked and terrified at the opposite side of the bed, cleaning cloth in her hand poised over the bedside candelabra, eyes wide and oddly vacant. “I’ll just—“

“Go,” Ben finished for her.

For a moment she did not move, standing stock still as if bewitched. She looked dumbly at the prone form of her master, his mouth bloodied and a bruise blossoming on his cheek, then to Ben, the blood on his face, the bloody knife in his hand. Then she scurried away, not even bothering to curtsy before fleeing, throwing one last panicked look at them both before slamming the door shut behind her.

Ben set to work immediately, picking up the four strings he’d cut from the harpsichord in the library and tucking them into his baldric, grabbing one of Armitage’s boots and yanking it off. His feet were pale and narrow, his ankles fragile in Ben’s hands. He wrapped the thin wire around Armitage’s ankle, twisting it snugly and around on itself, then fastened it securely to the closest bedpost. Quickly, rhythmically, he did the same for the other leg, then moved to his slim wrists and secured them similarly, fixing the string cruelly tight so that the metal bit into his skin.

He watched the deadly slow rise and fall of Armitage’s snowy chest- his face sweet and blank with sleep, not even flickering with life - and felt a muted terror that he had killed him. He pushed the feeling down and after another moment arranged the pillows so they supported Armitage’s lolling head, then re-arranged his sweat and blood-streaked hair so that it wasn’t sticking to his face.

After a moment more he took out his knife and angled the blade at the V where his shirtsleeves dipped into his chest, then cut a slow, straight line down the front, slipping the thin fabric aside.

Ben brushed a hand slowly over the creamy white skin, wondering at the tiny pink nipples, the just-soft stomach, the narrow waist and chest. It seemed impossible that someone so wicked could be so virginally beautiful, yet here Armitage was, a living impossibility, slumbering peacefully. It was as if whatever demon that made him as he was left as he slept, only to return when he woke.

Ben slit the sleeves and ripped the rest of the tattered shirtsleeves away, discarding the remnants on the floor. Armitage’s arms were as slender as his long legs and just as white as the rest of him, lined with only the most subtle hint of muscle.

Reverently, as if paging through a Bible, Ben took a lock of Armitage’s hair in his fingers, touching its smooth length, marveling at the color as it burned in the candlelight. Everything about him, every feature, was finely wrought as if he were a beautiful doll crafted by the most skilled of artisans.

“Ben?” Armitage asked groggily and his pale eyes flickered open, a sneer forming on his porcelain face the second it became animated. He jerked violently in his restraints and immediately bared his teeth in pain, thin beads of blood appearing where the harpsichord strings dug into his wrists.

“I wouldn’t struggle if I were you,” Ben warned, and released the lock of hair so it fell on one china shoulder. “It’ll only hurt you more.”

“Oh, that’s very wonderful, Ben,” Armitage sneered, a sarcastic, patronizing edge to his tone. “Is that really the best you can do? Prove what a big godly  _ man  _ you are by tying me to your bed?”

“It’s not like that,” Ben said, taking a hesitant step back.

“Really,” Armitage drawled. “Stripping me half naked could have fooled me. Then what is this, Ben? A cry for help? Some wild little revenge plot? Or is this a little fantasy of yours, tying me here and making me beg? If it’s a blushing, crying virgin you want, I must confess that vessel sailed rather long ago.”

“You disgust me,” Ben said. Anger reared in his chest, uncontrollably strong.

Armitage laughed, high and clear as a bell, chin upturned. He smiled with his sharp teeth. “Pathetic.”

“This is for Mitaka,” Ben growled, and before Armitage could reply he pulled back and smashed his fist into Armitage’s mouth. Armitage managed to flinch away to deflect what would have been a teeth-breaking blow into a glancing hit that ripped his lip and crunched his nose. Hot blood gushed onto Ben’s knuckles and he shook it off, painting Armitage’s porcelain chest with thin streaks of crimson.

Armitage spat blood onto the pillows and offered Ben a furious grin, mouth dripping from the abuse. “Are you enjoying this, Ben?” he asked smoothly as Ben climbed onto the bed, kneeling over Armitage’s immobilized body. “Are you getting as aroused as you were when I had my knife to your throat?”

Ben didn’t answer,  dizzied by the sight of blood. Carefully, experimentally, he curled his fingers around the elegant column of Armitage’s throat. It fit perfectly in his hand, as if he had been molded to him; with a delirious sort of terror he wondered if he  _ had  _ been made to rid Creation of this evil. Armitage did not so much as struggle, only looking up at him through his unnaturally white lashes.. He was soft, cold; Ben remembered how the last spasms of life felt under his hands and couldn’t stop himself from gasping.

Ben tightened his grip until he could do no more and Armitage’s thin body jerked beneath him, harsh, choking sounds gasping from his throat, pretty lips spread wide for air that would not come. Ben watched in  faint  elation as a fluttering sort of animal panic flared in Armitage’s pale eyes—

Ben let go and Armitage  gave the most wrenching gasp, his entire body arching with the tortured rise and fall of his heaving chest, each breath labored and desperate. Ben watched him struggle, admiring the thin beads of blood forming where his wrists were cut by his bonds.

He had never looked so beautiful. Ben ran an appreciative hand over the fine ribcage, wondering at the delicate bones arched so close beneath his skin, holding the narrow place where his ribs met his waist as it shuddered with tiny tremors.

“Did you enjoy that, Ben?” Armitage hissed, hoarse and raw and  _ oh  _ did Ben want to do things to him, terrible things. “Did you do that to any whore who’d let you, wishing she was like me? Is this what you’ve always wanted?”

_ Yes,  _ Ben’s mind whispered, while another part of him recoiled.

“You flatter yourself,” Ben snapped. He dealt Armitage a powerful backhand, cherishing the abused shades of pink and red on his pretty face, imagining how it would bloom and purple with bruises, Ben’s handprint tattooed onto his throat. “This is vengeance.”

Armitage  barked out a harsh laugh , flashing bloody teeth. “I’m not the one who killed your precious Mitaka.”

The knife was in Ben’s hand in an instant, carving an ugly line over Armitage’s ribs. Blood spilled eagerly from the cut but once the rushing  _ hate  _ cleared to a dull throb he realized he had hardly cut deep enough to injure.

Armitage gasped and Ben looked at him hungrily—he had spent long hours thinking of how his haughty face might look screwed up and his cruel eyes shining with tears. Instead his face glowed with terrible arousal, lips falling open and white lashes fluttering weakly. Ben was reminded forcibly of his wanton moans through the keyhole, how his entire body arched in pleasure, and felt the urge to drive the blade deep into him, end the hideous perversion once and for all. He stilled himself only by that same fire which cried for revenge. Killing him now would be too merciful.

Armitage’s gasp ended in a low moan as Ben shifted his hand near the wound.

“You’ll recant those words,” Ben said, running the blade’s edge lightly over Armitage’s delicate collarbones, eliciting a slight shudder as the skin split, watching the mosaic of pain and fear and arousal paint itself across the pale face. “You said it yourself. There are always people who take it too far.” He slashed another line in Armitage’s side, drawing out another wicked gasp. “Do you want me to take you apart like our Dominican monks do? They say it’s a national talent.”

No one said any such thing, and Ben was quite confident he was more depraved than the godly men guarding Christendom, but the tiny spark of fear Armitage quickly smothered was worth the lie.

Armitage scowled, one angular cheekbone already starting to swell, but said nothing, savaged throat swallowing painfully. Ben dragged a thumb over the wound, heart pounding in his chest as he gripped the hilt of the knife more tightly. It was silvery and beautiful, worn down with use—it chilled him to think of just what Armitage had done with it.

He squeezed Armitage’s bleeding side experimentally and he squealed, thrashing and still gasping as blood dribbled between Ben’s fingers. Ben bit back a grimace, tightening his grip until Armitage cried out, his pain the sweetest music to Ben’s ears. Armitage was so deliciously responsive—Ben ached to take his time, map all his reactions and play all those sweet whimpers and screams like the finest instrument.

Ben brought the blade slowly towards Armitage’s face, watching with demonic pleasure as his eyes widened in terror—someone so vain could never bear his beauty to be marred—shying away as far as he could. Ben seized his jaw and held him, pressing all his weight and strength down as Armitage fought like a cornered rat, snarling as Ben carefully carved a thin, red line down Armitage’s sculpted cheekbone. Blood weeped from the wound, eagerly dripping down into his ear.

Armitage wrenched free of his grasp and Ben yelled in pain and surprise as Armitage’s teeth sank into his palm, tearing into his flesh. Ben dealt him a wild blow to the jaw that released his hand and left Armitage momentarily stunned. Ben seized a fistful of his hair and yanked, exposing the other cheek—

“Stop!” Armitage cried as he thrashed and Ben halted the blade over his unmarred cheek,  dizzyingly close. He longed to cut into him until he was scarcely recognizable, but Armitage’s fear of the blade cutting his face was more tantalizing than the act itself.

“Recant your sins, and I won’t,” Ben told him. Armitage’s fear lifted into a snarl and he jerked in his bonds again, spitting into Ben’s face. Ben pushed the blade into his cheek again—

“Fine,” Armitage spat, fuming like a sulphurous demon from the abyss. If he hadn’t been tied down and pinned under Ben’s weight, Ben would have backed away instantly. A wolfish grimace shone from the blood. “O Holy God, strike me with lightning should I have disobeyed your commandments in any way.”

Ben jerked back and fell heavily onto Armitage’s knees, making the other man laugh a high, feverish laugh. “See?” he rasped, voice savaged by Ben’s grip on his throat. No lightning was forthcoming. “Your God isn’t here, Ben. He never was. Your poor blind faith is as empty as—“

Whatever he meant to say next was lost as Ben lashed out in burning rage, punishing Armitage’s body with his fists, his knife, even his teeth, sinking them into Armitage’s pale shoulder and making him scream. When at last he ceased his frenzied attack, limbs buzzing with exhaustion and mind blank, Armitage was shaking, glistening all over with his own blood, barely breathing over the very real panic in his eyes.

Ben ripped the cross of Saint Benedict ring off Armitage’s hand and vaulted off the bed, crossing to the fire in two easy strides and dropping it into the still-glowing embers. He waited until the metal seemed almost to glow, glorying in the soft whimpers emanating from the bed behind him, then plucked it up in his gloved hand, ignoring the sting on his own fingers, and held it where Armitage could see.

Frightened eyes fixed on the ring in mute horror, chest rising and falling quickly, like trapped prey. Ben brought it near his face and he strained violently away in his bonds., blood dripping all down his forearms.

“No no no,” Armitage gasped. “No, fuck, Ben no  _ no _ —“

Ben pulled away at the last second before the metal would have seared into his skin and pressed the ring down into the soft, sensitive flesh inside his hipbone.

Armitage screamed, raw and agonized, writhing wildly around the brand pressed into his flesh, spine arching desperately off the bed as if trying to buck Ben off. Ben held the ring down for as long as he could until the pain in his own hand was too much and he threw it aside, marveling at the beautiful red mark in Armitage’s skin, the shape of the cross.

There was a soft, broken noise as Ben pressed his burnt fingers into the mark and Ben looked up to see glimmering tears on Armitage’s flushed cheeks. Armitage flinched as Ben leaned over and lapped them up with his tongue, the tangy taste of Armitage’s blood exploding in his mouth, complimented by the salty tears.

Ben moaned and knelt astride Armitage’s trembling legs, not missing the straining erection against his own. Armitage sobbed noisily, cursing as Ben pressed a hand to his bleeding stomach.

“There doesn’t have to be lightning for God to punish you,” Ben said and Armitage whimpered. His face and neck were bruising in earnest now and he twisted weakly under Ben’s gaze.  _ Ruined,  _ Ben thought with a cold twist in the pit of his stomach. “He sent me instead. Do you want your punishment to end?”

“Yes,” Armitage gasped, moaning as Ben brushed a thumb along the edge of one of his wounds. “Yes, yes, please, Ben, stop—“

“Repeat after me,” Ben said, watching fresh tears gather at the corners of Armitage’s eyes with fascination. “I confess to Almighty God that I have sinned.”

“Fuck you,” Armitage mumbled, then  gave a hoarse cry as Ben raised his hand— “I confess to Almighty God that I have sinned,” he blurted out, cringing away from the blow that Ben did not deliver.

Ben smiled, the newfound rush of  _ power  _ rushing to his head,  sending his mind reeling and , making his cock throb. “Since then, I have committed many mortal sins.”

“Since then I have committed many mortal sins— _ fuck  _ don’t make me say them all Ben you fucking swine—“

“For these and all the sins that I have committed during my life, I am deeply sorry,” Ben prompted. Armitage stared at him, split and swollen lips hanging open in stubborn silence. Ben pushed more weight onto his hand and Armitage cried out.

He panted out through broken breaths, “For these and all the sins that I have committed during my life, I am deeply sorry.”

“Now your act of contrition,” Ben said, idly tracing a thin line over the soft flesh of Armitage’s chest. “This can take many forms, but say whatever comes to your heart—“

“I know what the act of contrition is, you fucking whoreson!” Armitage screamed, then whimpered out a few more broken sobs. “O God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell.”

His pale eyes were rolling back into his head; he seemed almost possessed. For a brief moment Ben could not help but wonder if he was, if the holy words would truly drive his demon out. “Keep going,” he said.

Armitage yelled in wordless frustration and terror, and for a moment he did nothing but struggle, teeth bared. Eventually he lay limp for a moment, then continued, “But most of all because they offend You, my God, Who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Are you happy now, you fucking sick bastard?”

Ben’s lips curled upwards. “Amen,” he added, strangely elated as Armitage burst into fresh tears, knocking the top of his skull against the dark headboard. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of your son, you have reconciled the world to yourself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.”

Armitage jerked rebelliously in his bonds and screamed through gritted teeth as the harpsichord strings cut deeper into his wrists.

“Through the ministry of the church, may God grant you pardon and peace,” Ben continued, touching the rosary under his shirt. “And I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

He crossed himself and Armitage spat at him, thick with blood.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,” Ben said, giving his bloodied side an admonishing squeeze.

“For His mercy endures forever,” Armitage choked out, and Ben felt blood seeping into the fabric of his breeches, at the knees, where Armitage’s blood soaked into the sheets.

Ben pressed his hand gravely to Armitage’s sweat-soaked forehead and drew back  when Armitage snapped viciously at it as if for a second bite. Armitage’s eyes were wild, unfocused and growing glassy—he would be unconscious soon. Ben’s cock throbbed distractingly and he shifted his hips to relieve the awful pressure.

He gripped the knife and pushed his hand swiftly over Armitage’s mouth, ready to plunge the blade downward—

Armitage  gave a muffled cry and thrashed about desperately, crashing his head back into the headboard as he fought to free himself from Ben’s grip. Ben could feel his powerful struggles becoming weaker and weaker, his rolling eyes distant. Ben raised the knife again.

A terrible urge hit him and Ben whimpered over the responding throb in his cock, painful, insistent. He glanced down at Armitage’s bleeding, shaking body, bile rising in his throat. He  _ wanted  _ him, here, now.

Ben recoiled from his own impulse, tearing himself away and scrambling off the bed. He jammed the bloody knife in his baldric and fled, tearing open the door and jolting through, slamming it shut behind him—

A ghostly face appeared before him and Ben drew up to an abrupt halt.

“Where—where is he?” Techie stammered, reaching out and latching one small hand onto Ben’s shirt. “W-what have you done with him?”

Ben fought back the impulse to retch and gripped Techie’s slim hand in his own. Techie recoiled at the sensation of blood, twisting back in horror.

“D-Did you uh kill him?” Techie stuttered. Dread blossomed on his thin face. “O-oh god you d-did he’s d-dead oh god oh g-god—“

“He’s not dead,” Ben told him quickly, glancing down the darkened halls anxiously for any sign a hostile servant might have been aroused. “He’s not dead, listen to me—I’m getting out of here, come with me, I’ll take you where you can be safe—“

“Let me in,” Techie begged, pulling on Ben’s shirt. He was beside himself with fear, pushing at Ben’s chest, shaking his head frantically. “P-please uh let me in, I need to s-see him he can’t be uh d-dead he can’t—y-you p-promised you wouldn’t uh k-kill him Ben I t-trusted you—“

“I told you he’s alive!” Ben snapped and Techie reared back in terror,  nearly toppling backwards. Ben caught his wrist and pulled him up at the last second but Techie reached past him and scrabbled for the door. “Come with me,” Ben pleaded helplessly, but Techie ignored him, throwing his meager weight into the door.

Ben heard a commotion and, with a last desperate look at Techie, began to run in the opposite direction, vaulting down the stairs and through the dark, labyrinthine corridors until he came out onto the courtyard, breathing hard. The moon shone brightly in the sky, illuminating the flagstones and throwing deep blue shadowsover the stones.

Ben looked around wildly for the stables, clutching at his pounding heart. The terrible nausea of before hadn’t faded and the drink he had consumed was starting to make his head throb.

He caught sight of a slanted roof that looked like it could be a stable and made for it at a run. Rows and rows of horses greeted him but Esperanza’s black muzzle was nowhere in sight. He seized the first reins he saw and threw them frantically over the muzzle of the nearest horse—a trim bay mare that looked anxious to set off—and pulled himself over her back. He hadn’t ridden bareback in years but he could hear shouts from the castle and lights flickering at the windows—

The curly-haired stable boy appeared from nowhere, rubbing his eyes blearily at the commotion the nearby horses made at the excitement of Ben’s appearance. Ben’s heart pounded furiously—he didn’t have time for another struggle—

The stable boy’s dark eyes widened as he saw Ben, and then the blood. “Is he dead?” he asked.

Ben opened his mouth to say no, then remembered the dark blood in the sheets, in his clothes, Armitage’s weakening struggles. “Maybe,” he said.

The stable boy’s mouth set into a hard line and he stepped back deliberately. “Good enough for me. I won’t stop you.”

Ben nodded appreciatively and nudged the mare into motion. She lurched into a clipping canter and Ben clung to the reins, then her mane, as she gained speed. He tore down the main street, the dark huts flashing by, when the deep chime of the Church bell sounded. Lights flickered all around and Ben’s heart leapt into his throat; before him the main gate began to swing ponderously shut—

Ben dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and she leapt forward, galloping full tilt at the rapidly closing gates. Guards dove out of the way as the mare rushed through, the gates close enough to Ben’s sides that he could feel them brush against his boots.

The telltale sound of an arrow whizzed by Ben’s ear; he jerked around on the bay’s back and was almost thrown off, immediately spotting the dark figures of archers. He threw himself down low over her neck, clinging to the reins and cursing as the arrows rained down around them, perilously close.

They fairly flew over the drawbridge, the mare skittering and making one great leap just as the bridge began to draw up. She landed hard on the other side, powerful hind legs nearly collapsing into the dirt; Ben clung desperately to her mane to keep from sliding off.

With a high, panicked whinny she recovered and bolted, and with great terror and exertion Ben managed to pull himself onto her back. The sky was almost pitch black; Ben could scarcely see where the road and the forest diverged. Far, far ahead, a tiny, bright light pricked the darkness, a beacon of hope—Lord Devan’s castle.

Ben shivered as a frigid wind tore at his shirtsleeves, blinking back the stinging cold that made his eyes water. Lord Devan would take him in. He had been sympathetic before. All Ben had to do was show him the dreadful wounds he had sustained at Armitage’s hands, and surely he would understand. As for the blood on his clothes—well, surely he would understand that, too.

He would get a letter home to his mother, and surely she would have him back. He’d see little Rey again, hold her as she wept over poor Mitaka’s fate, murdered by the English madman. He’d embrace his mother again, his uncle, tell them both how he had missed them—

A bone-chilling call interrupted his fevered reverie, low and deep and loud, like some behemoth demon groaning from its hellish grave. Ben shivered uncontrollably and spurred the mare to go faster, patting her neck clumsily in apology as her chest heaved in protest.

The light on the horizon was growing larger, broken now by the dark crooked trees so that it appeared to twinkle in and out of view like a mirage. Ben hunkered down even further and clung to the mare’s neck, silently willing her onwards. Prayer after prayer flew off his lips and ran jumbled through his head as the terrible call sounded again; closer this time, if the panic in Ben’s mind was to be believed. His overwhelmed mind conjured up all kinds of demons in the dark trees, flickers of movement here and there. His lungs ached from his harried breathing and the icy air, fear pounding through his veins, hard and cold as lead.

The dark shape of the castle was visible now, lit by the twinkling lights, but the mare had begun to stumble, bred for speed but not endurance. Ben muttered encouragements in her ear, squeezing his legs to her sides, heart pounding in his chest. The call had not sounded again and it was eerily silent save for the mare’s and his own ragged breathing.

Light dazzled his eyes and the mare skittered in panic. He hung on to her with his whole body and kicked viciously into her ribs to keep her running, tossing her head wildly as two shadowy figures emerged from the darkness behind him.

Ben’s heart leapt to his mouth and his hand rushed to the dagger on his belt. The figures were gaining, rushing headlong towards him like bats out of hell, only the wild eyes of their dark horses were distinguishable.

One pulled near him and he lashed out with the knife,  nearly toppling off the mare’s back. When he’d clawed his way back to balance, the other rider had crowded close, blade flashing—

The mare reared and screamed as a hail of fiery arrows blazed around them and the rider’s blade cleaved open one powerful hind leg. Ben felt her skitter and collapse, bellowing loudly.

Something dark dropped over his head and Ben crashed to the ground, stones ramming painfully into his body. He struggled in the heavy rope net, kicking wildly and freeing the hand with the dagger. A heavy boot crushed his wrist and Ben cried out in pain and dismay as the figure swiped the weapon up and seized a handful of the net, hauling Ben up like a piece of meat—

“No!” Ben screamed, clawing at the dusty road, the serene light of Lord Devan’s castle glinting above him. He lashed out with his feet and fists to no avail, his attacks scything harmlessly through empty air. The bay mare lay in the dust, struggling and whinnying weakly, dark blood pouring from her wound and two legs mangled beyond repair. The two mounted figures who had flanked Ben before each grabbed a handful of net as the one on foot  unsheathed his sword and—

Ben squeezed his eyes shut and yelped as a pained whinny pierced the air. When he at last brought himself to open his eyes the dismounted rider was wiping his blade on the dewy grass, the mare still and silent.

The rider leapt wraith-like onto the back of his horse and then they were off, the dusty road speeding by beneath Ben as he struggled, his limbs hopelessly tangled in the net and his heart hammering painfully in his chest.

He was going to die. The castle—and freedom—had been in sight, moments away, and he was going to die. Whether by Lord Hux’s or a fearsome riders’ hand, he was going to die.

He choked out a desperate prayer, begging for deliverance.  _ Lord God,  _ he pleaded,  _ please have mercy. _

No intercession was forthcoming. A few terrible minutes later, Ben gave up the struggle, laying still in the net, preparing his soul for death.

 

 

A fist gripped Ben’s hair and yanked, and he yelled out in pain as two other hands pulled the net free from his limbs,pinned his arms behind his back, and dragged him roughly through the dark. He tried to scream; none of them stopped him or even seemed to care, which terrified him even more than before. A harsh rattle sounded in the gloom and then Ben was tossed carelessly to the floor, his hands and knees pressing into something cold and wet and soft and his hand curled around something hard and slim—

A bone. Ben screamed and jolted back,  dizzied with horror. Harsh, barking noises echoed around him—the riders were laughing.

“Go to hell!” Ben shouted, fury lighting suddenly in his chest and throwing him bodily against the bars of his cage. His knees were wet with whatever was underfoot and the stench was overwhelming, filling his nostrils, his entire skull; Ben gagged and snarled at the three figures—now four—as more barking laughter came forth.

“Where are you going?!” he demanded as the figures turned to leave. “Where are you—is that damned devil Armitage your master? Answer me! Is he? I hope he’s dead! I hope you all burn in hell—together!”

The darkness did not reply.

Something crumbled within Ben and he began to cry. His clothes smelled of blood and the cage floor overwhelmingly of rot of the most abhorrent description. He felt as if he might vomit at any second. The vision of Lord Devan’s castle lit in the inky darkness made his sobs come even harder—he’d been so close, so  _ close,  _ it wasn’t fair—

He thought of Armitage’s pale body ruined by sharpened steel and blood and retched, an awful tug at his gut that brought up only thin bile. “Lord, save me,” he whispered. “Punish me if You will but deliver me, Your faithful servant.”

He’d only done it out of obedience. He’d been so sure—he wasn’t a monster, he was a servant of God. Armitage wasn’t dead—if God willed him to live, he would recover. God would deliver Ben. He’d see his mother again. He’d see Rey smile. He was sure of it.

 

He discovered the lower half of a jaw at the corner of his cage. He couldn’t be sure of the time that had passed, but it felt as if it had been at least a day. He was hungry. He was cold, numb to the bone and teeth chattering. He couldn’t feel his lips, nor smell the awful effluvia.

 

He was praying hours at a time now, hands curled around the bars and head bowed. He tried screaming for what felt like hours but nothing happened.

He confessed everything he could think of that he had done, and even some things that he hadn’t. He begged for forgiveness. He begged for salvation. He begged to be let out.

No salvation was forthcoming.

 

His thirst and hunger had become all-consuming, a constant burning in his chest and a gnawing pressure on his stomach that was driving him half mad. He begged God at first, then later anyone or anything he could think of. It must have been weeks since he last ate or drank even a drop of clean water. He licked the dew off the bars and lay on the floor against the steel and shuddered.

No one came.

 

He screamed himself hoarse over the next few weeks. It felt like weeks. It  _ had _ to be weeks. Agonizing weeks. He clawed deep furrows down his face and cried until he could scarcely move, stomach a hollow pit of despair. God was coming for him. He must keep faith.

He was so desperately hungry it made him vomit.

 

He killed Mitaka. He killed Armitage too. He killed the old man who everyone knew had violated a farm girl, he killed the girl they said was pretty who served mead at the tavern in the village. He killed the lady at Lord Devan’s ball whose name he could scarcely recall and he could remember every single face and he wanted to kill himself too—

He begged God for forgiveness and then begged God for death. Neither came, just that same gnawing hunger and the few drops of water that sated his burning thirst. He could  _ feel  _ reality slipping away, sleep coming all too easy and yet not at all, never resting, just that same painful thirst, the consuming hunger, the crumbling despair.

God, Ben finally knew, would not come.

 

At first he wept, then he roared with fury, then finally he lay on the floor and trembled with fear. He had no place in God’s kingdom. There was no being more wicked than he—at least Armitage made no pretension, made his evil plain. Ben hated him. Ben hated himself. Ben hated God most of all.

He cursed God in a moment of desperation, then lay shivering with terror as he silently begged to be smitten by death. When death did not come, he gnashed wildly at his own wrists with his teeth, but could barely break the skin, numb and clumsy and shaking with cold. Every part of his body seemed to both burn and freeze—he’d lost more of his own will than he knew he’d even possessed.

 

Ben was asleep or unconscious when a slim sliver of light hit his face. A harsh scraping sound—Ben threw his hands over his ears to protect them from the pain, then over his eyes as overpowering light like the flensing fire of heaven seared his eyes. He could scarcely lift his head but he managed as angelic figures separated from the light. The tallest one spread its arms.

“Ben,” it said, arms like wings or snatching claws, and Ben shuddered uncontrollably. His blasphemy had been heard—he was going to die. His blackened soul would be plucked from his wicked body and winged straight to hell. Hell—eternal torture, so so much worse than anything pathetic, human Armitage could devise—

Numb prayers spilled from his numb lips and he huddled into the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks.  _ God, God, God—! _

“Ben,” the voice said again, louder this time, and Ben startled, eyes straining against the light. Slowly he acclimated to the light like a creature of darkness and he saw Armitage’s face and wept, teeth clenched so tightly they might break. He wasn’t dead— _ he wasn’t dead— _ he was in beautiful, all-white brocades, resplendent enough for a host of angels and deadly enough for all of them.

“Please,” Ben sobbed, and he didn’t know for what or from whom he begged. He drove his head into the bars as if hoping to crack open his skull and spill out his brains.

“Shh,” Armitage soothed, a beautiful, serene smile on his marble face. He leaned heavily on a silver, intricately wrought cane but he stood so tall and proud he seemed almost to float. Four—five—dark figures around him—shifted slightly as he took a graceful step forwards; Ben could not even shy away, fixated on the slim dagger in Armitage’s white gloved hands.

“I’m very glad you didn’t lose this,” he said, catching Ben’s gaze on the blade. “I am rather attached to it. It was a true favorite of my father’s, you see.” The serene smile stretched, thinned; Ben gaped at him in wonderment as he knelt slowly, with effort, stiff as if with old age, until his face hovered over Ben’s through the bars.

Ben whimpered loudly, trembling with terror and anticipation.

“I’m dreadfully sorry for leaving you down here,” Armitage said softly, as if speaking to a cherished lover. “My coalescence seems to have taken priority, and you were forgotten. No thanks to you, of course,” he added, gaze still sweet and fond. “ _ I _ didn’t forget about you, Ben. I thought about you even as I slept, even as I suffered from the wounds you gave me.”

Ben’s eyes were locked to his and he couldn’t possibly have glanced away even if he had wanted. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice broken and cracked. He did not know to which god he spoke, if any.

“I forgive you,” Armitage breathed, and Ben felt a dam break inside him and he sobbed and sobbed, clinging to the bars and then to Armitage’s boots as he stood to unlock the door and release him from his purgatory. Absolution swept through him like the bliss of release or the embrace of God and he curled around the slim ankles as if they were the wounded ones of Christ and hung on tight, drinking in the human warmth and something  _ real,  _ the release from suffering—

“Come,” Armitage said, almost gently, reaching down enough to touch a cold hand to Ben’s cheek. “You must be starving. Let’s get you something to eat and drink, no? And of course a bath, you smell like a raised corpse.”

More gently than before, the riders lifted Ben off the floor and carried him in their master’s wake.

 

 

“Is he all right, my lord? May I—I have food, drink—“

“Leave it here,” Armitage commanded and Ben blinked his eyes open with effort, just in time to see Elizabeth’s worried, fearful eyes as she gave a shaky curtsy and deposited a clattering tray on the flagstones beside her lord and hurried away, glancing quickly over her shoulder at Ben before shutting the door behind her.

Armitage offered him a slim smile. “You’re dangerous, Ben,” he said softly, as if by way of explanation. He brushed the filthy, wet hair from Ben’s eyes and Ben shuddered, feeling the truth too deeply. “I can’t have you hurting my servants. You understand, I must think of them first. I can bathe and feed you myself after all, can I not?”

Ben broke into a fresh, painful bout of tears and Armitage stroked his cheek, cold eyes sorrowful. “Shh,” he said, and dipped a bare hand into the steaming copper tub. “Let me help with your things, Ben,” he said, and guided Ben’s hands to his shirt, which was ripped beyond repair. In the end Armitage all but ripped it off, though gently, tugged patiently at Ben’s ruined boots, then all but hauled him into the tub.

Ben groaned at the heat, writhing against the sudden throbbing burn after the frigid cold. Armitage’s slim hand found his and Ben squeezed, struggling weakly as the heat worked its way into his body, leaving him aching and boneless, mind hazy and drifting. He felt as if he might simply drift away, mind winking out of his own body.

“That’s it,” Armitage murmured, stroking Ben’s forehead. Carefully he removed his gloves and dipped a clean white cloth into the water, then rubbed gently at Ben’s face, making him whimper. “Almost there, Ben. I promise. It’ll feel so good soon. You’ll have a bite to eat and some water, and I can sit here and keep you company, and you won’t be able to hurt anyone, they’ll be safe. I promise I’ll keep you safe, too.”

Ben nodded, another tear slipping down his cheek. He was beyond speech, beyond thought, but the warmth was seeping back into his flesh and heating his brittle bones and leaving behind only a slight ache. Armitage’s gentle touch with the warm cloth felt so good as he ran it idly over Ben’s skin, letting him lavish in the touch after being so terribly, terribly alone.

“Why?” Ben asked, gathering his wits into that one word.

“Why?” Armitage repeated, pushing his hair out of his pallid face. Ben could see now that his skin looked ghastly, almost grey with ill health or exhaustion and guilt lanced him through. And to think he’d been forgiven— “I’ve—I’ve never felt this before,” he said, a hint of confusion glimmering in his indistinctly green eyes, but his gaze was locked to Ben’s, supernaturally intense. “What’s between us is special.”

“I...I nearly killed you,” Ben said, mind numb with confusion and disbelief and something near terrified elation. His face blazed with shame and the heat of the water. “I—“ He choked down a sob, “I tortured you. You should hate me. You should have killed me!”

The last was half a plea.

“And yet I don’t,” Armitage replied, curling his fingers around Ben’s. “Accept it. Understand it or not, Ben, but it’s true.”

He leaned down just slightly and planted a soft kiss to Ben’s forehead. Ben shivered, a wave of unbidden contentment rushing through him. It felt so good—it shouldn’t, it should be abhorrent, but he could not deny the ripples of pleasure, the relaxed satiation in his tortured body.

“Feel better yet, darling?” Armitage asked, withdrawing a hand to undo the buttons of his pure white doublet, shelling it off and setting it neatly aside. Ben nodded, his worn mind taking in the heavy white bandages around Armitage’s slender wrists, the angry red cuts under the hollows of his cheekbones. His pretty lips were swollen and split, his skin marbled with half-healed bruises.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Armitage breathed, tracing a finger over his own purpled cheek. “I’ve admired it at length myself.”

Ben nodded his agreement, breath caught in his throat. Hesitantly Armitage lifted Ben’s hand and brought it to his lips; Ben felt lightly the raised texture of the scabs and the silkiness of his mouth, hardly daring to breathe as Armitage sucked gently around his outstretched finger, hot and wet—Ben shivered as his tongue played slowly over the pad.

“Enough of that,” Armitage said and pushed Ben’s hand away, a slight flush on his bruised cheeks. “I must get some nourishment into you before you faint away from famine.”

Ben nodded eagerly and attempted to sit up in the deeply sloping tub but failed, managing only to slide himself closer to the water’s surface. Armitage lifted a goblet to his lips and, after a moment’s hesitation, Ben drank greedily, gulping down the cool liquid and wincing as it wetted his parched throat.

“Good,” Armitage murmured, smoothing down Ben’s hair and pouring him some more water. “Take your time, there’s no rush.”

Ben drank gratefully and Armitage rested his chin on the edge of the tub, watching him drink as if taking in the elixir of life itself. When the second glass was empty Armitage picked soft bread from the crust and put it to Ben’s lips, holding it patiently as Ben bit and nibbled at it, forcing his abused throat to swallow. Bits of cheese and fruit came next, Armitage’s hand stroking Ben’s hair gently as he ate, his voice murmuring sweet praise, the shiveringly intense, cold gaze never leaving him.

“What do you need now, my sweet?” he asked. “I can’t feed you much more, you must take it slow. May I wash you now?”

Ben hesitated, fearful of sudden cruelty. He nodded.

Armitage dipped the cloth in the water and rubbed it slowly over Ben’s chest, pressing away gently the dirt and grime soaked into his skin. His breath tickled Ben’s cheek, warm and sweet; Ben felt his skin tingle under his singular gaze. Armitage’s slim thumb stroked the back of his hand as if Ben were a child in need of comfort. The bath was so warm, and Ben was so comfortable, and the weight of is stomach was just enough that he nearly drifted off to sleep.

“You’ve so many moles,” Armitage said suddenly, his pink lips pulled down in a frown. “I’ve never seen so many before.”

Ben swallowed. “I’ve...I’ve always had them. My mother used to call them my....the literal translation would be ‘deer spots’.”

He’d always hated them, and hated the term even more, though he’d never told her outright.

“They’re sweet,” Armitage said, glancing up at him through his white lashes and pulling a plump pout at Ben’s disbelief. “They are.” He pressed his lips to one and Ben felt his chest heat to an unbearable degree. “I want to kiss them all,” Armitage breathed, and kissed another. “Would you let me do that, Ben? They’re like stars. I do so love the stars.”

“I...” Ben’s hazy mind tried to formulate an objection, but he could think of none. “I suppose so.”

“Good,” Armitage whispered, and dipped in to press a kiss to a mole on his neck, swirling his tongue in a lazy circle. One warm, wet hand ghosted to Ben’s chin and  _ oh— _

“Stop,” Ben begged, and raised a hand to cling to the side of the copper basin.

Armitage pulled away, eyes soft and hazy, focused on him only. “What’s wrong, Ben?”

“This is wrong,” Ben said, the statement more a plea than anything. “It—it feels too good but it’s a sin, it’s wrong, it’s  _ wrong,  _ it’s wrong like everything else, you must stop—“

“Oh, Ben,” Armitage said, and wiped away a stray tear from Ben’s face with the cloth. “Of course it’s not. No, listen to me, don’t give me those beseeching eyes. Was the love between David and Jonathan as wicked as you say?”

Ben blinked. David and Jonathan... “It’s not the same,” he said, slowly. Strongly. “They were brothers...friends, not...” he trailed off before he could say  _ lovers. _

“Were they?” Armitage said, gaze at once innocent and so damning. “The Good Book never quite  _ says _ , does it?”

Ben could not argue. He couldn’t say much at all.

Armitage pursed his lips slightly, as if aware of how full and pink and tempting they appeared, and dabbed carefully at Ben’s face to remove the dirt. “Lay back, my darling,” he murmured, cradling Ben’s head in his hands. “I must wash your hair. You can put your head back if it is more comfortable—yes, that’s it.”

The last was as Ben took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and let himself sink deeper into the basin so that his hair was submerged in the water, taking great care to brace himself with his legs should Armitage suddenly decide to push him under.

Armitage carefully tangled his fingers in Ben’s hair, his bandaged wrists rubbing against Ben’s cheek. His slim, strong fingers felt incredible against his scalp and Ben shuddered with pleasure. He had no idea such a simple sensation could cause so much bliss, waves of it trickling  down his spine and making him want to slip under the water entirely.

The softest moan escaped his lips and he felt his face flush and his cock twitch just slightly under the water. It felt so good—something this gentle could hardly be a sin, could it—?

“Relax,” Armitage said, and curled a hand under Ben’s neck so he could cease straining his shoulders to stay above the water. “I’ll take care of you, Ben. I’ll always take care of you, I promise. I won’t let you hurt anyone you love ever again. You’re dangerous, you know. It’s not your fault but you’re so dangerous, Ben, I couldn’t bear it if you hurt someone again.”

Ben bit at his lip and felt fresh tears welling in his eyes. Armitage’s hand on his scalp still felt so good but his words stung, made his chest pang deeply. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said, and his voice warbled like a small child’s. “Please—please don’t let me do it again.  _ Please. _ ”

If anyone could control the demon inside him, it was Armitage. Some sick, cold part of him knew it was because Armitage  _ understood  _ him. They weren’t so dissimilar after all—

“I won’t, darling,” Armitage said, shifting close so Ben’s head rested against his chest. Ben imagined he could feel his fluttering heartbeat against his ribs. Armitage stroked his forehead, his temples, the tip of his chin. “You don’t have to worry any longer. You’re safe with me.”

 

 

Ben trembled under the sheets, watching the rain pour down outside his window. He’d been ill with the most terrible sickness—Armitage attributed it to the dungeon’s “chill” and sat by his bedside long hours feeding him sweet, creamy soup by the spoonful. Ben was still subject to the most awful swings of temperament—one second calm, the next irate, seizing all within sight and hurling it against the walls. For this reason his door had been bolted from the outside and only Armitage permitted to visit him, lest he harm an unsuspecting servant during one of his fits. He’d already broken two vases that were, as Armitage informed him as he wept moments later in his arms, priceless family heirlooms. This, as well as the outburst itself, only made him feel even more the beast.

Armitage had, surprisingly, thought to leave the Bible with him and Ben scoured its pages at length, drinking in its words as well as his buzzing, distracted mind could. It made him feel even worse.

He craved the interludes when Armitage came to visit him, leaving his study and his books to stroke Ben’s forehead and speak in that strange, soothing tone that seemed to drive all the cares from Ben’s mind. But they were fewer and fewer as winter approached and Armitage’s fief required constant attendance.

So he was understandably surprised when, mere minutes after Armitage had left for the night to sleep in his own chambers, the door creaked open and a paled, hesitant face peeked through.

“E-Elizabeth?” Ben stammered. “What are you—you can’t be here, you mustn’t—“

“Shh!” she hissed, and Ben fell silent, stomach roiling in terror. She couldn’t be here, she couldn’t, she  _ couldn’t— _ she mustn’t  _ see— _ “I’m here to rescue you, my lord!”

Ben blinked. Stared at her, puzzled and afraid. “Rescue me?”

“Rescue you,” Elizabeth repeated, a bit more forcefully. She was dressed in a boy’s clothes, threadbare and oversized pants and boots and her dull gold hair tucked into a worn, filthy cap. “I know you tried to get to Lord Devan’s, my lord, and that Lord Hux sent those awful men to bring you back here. And kept you in the dungeon, too! How dreadful!” She clutched the small, single candle to her chest. “But don’t worry, my lord, I’ve a way out of here, we’ll be safe soon—“

“You don’t understand,” Ben said, quickly, panicked, scrambling backwards on the bed as she took a hesitant step into the room and shut the door softly behind her. “I can’t leave, I’m too dangerous, I’m—you saw what I did, you saw what I did to him I can’t do it again—“

“Lord Armitage killed your servant boy!” Elizabeth exclaimed, then drew back. “My apologies my lord, but Lord Hux is a wicked man, you were justified—“

“I wasn’t  _ justified _ !” Ben screamed and Elizabeth jumped back, clutching the candle in her small palm, eyes wide with fright. “ _ I  _ killed Mitaka,  _ I  _ killed him  _ I’m  _ a monster, you don’t know half the things I’ve done—I’m capable of—Armita—Lord Hux is keeping you safe, leave me, please,  _ please— _ “

“He’s chained you to your bed, sir!” Elizabeth cried. “Please, come with me, Lord Devan can help us. He’ll return you to your family, he’s an honorable man—“

“ _ GO AWAY!”  _ Ben roared, leaping off the mattress. A horrible, concussive jerk on his shoulder; the heavy oaken frame lurched and he threw himself at her, lips peeling off his teeth in a feral snarl. “My family didn’t  _ want  _ me, don’t you see?  _ Get out  _ you dumb animal, can’t you see danger when it stares you in your stupid face?! Get out, get  _ OUT,  _ save your idiotic skin before it’s too late—“

“Please!” Elizabeth begged. Her already pale face was now white as a sheet; she looked desperate, eyes wide and wild with panic. “Please, my lord, you’re not in your right mind, he’s hurt you terribly, please listen to me, I know about the box. It’s alright, my lord, just please come with me—“

Hatred and terror exploded in Ben’s chest and his entire body  _ pulled  _ and his hand slipped free from the manacle (padded, loose, she should have never have  _ been  _ here) and clenched around her throat.

“ _ What box? _ ” he snarled. His veins were an alchemist’s molten lead, he was burning, freezing, collapsing on his own core.  _ The box. She knew. No one can know, no one, no one, NO ONE—  _ “What box?  _ WHAT FUCKING BOX?  _ Answer me you pathetic bitch or I’ll kill you I  _ told you  _ I’ll kill you why didn’t you  _ listen—“ _

Searing pain lanced through his shoulder and Ben’s grip loosened for a second. Elizabeth dropped the candle and ripped free from his grip, fleeing to the door as he lunged for her with a brute roar—

Ben pulled back just before the slamming door could smash his fingers, bellowing wordlessly, mindlessly as he heard the latch rattle and drop.

 

 

Ben had calmed considerably when the latch rattled again and the door pushed open, sending his heart pounding. He balled his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut—it couldn’t be her, not again—

“Ben,” Armitage said, and Ben unwillingly opened his eyes. The other man hovered in the doorway, resplendent, wrapped in a thick woven blanket against the castle’s chill.

“She told you,” Ben said.  _ He knew. He knew he knew he knew he knew— _

“It’s quite all right, Ben,” Armitage said gently, and traversed the room with floating steps to perch bird-like on the mattress next to him. “Elizabeth told me everything. I’m not angry. There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, nothing at all.”

“What?” Ben leapt off the bed as if it had scalded him. “No. You’re wrong—you should hate me. Everyone should hate me. You said so, you said I was wicked and dangerous you said you would protect them from me but you didn’t—“

“Don’t worry about little Elizabeth,” Armitage said dismissively. “She’s fine. Aren’t you, you disobedient wretch?”

A soft noise responded from behind the door and Ben scrambled back before the door opened and Elizabeth stepped reluctantly through. Her face had a great red welt across it that hadn’t been there when she’d left.

“Little Elizabeth has been such a silly little girl, hasn’t she?” Armitage said, rising smoothly and drawing to her side. She whimpered and cowered away as he pressed his fingers into the raised, inflamed welt on her face. “Trying to escape and all. And take along Ben here, too. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough before, you stupid cow, but Ben here likes  _ men,  _ not women, and certainly not silly little girls like you.”

“I—I’m sorry, my l-lord,” Elizabeth stammered, and Ben couldn’t look at her twisted face any longer. “I—I understand, now.”

“Good,” Armitage said, then gave her a small, careless push. “Now away with you. We have important matters to discuss.”

Elizabeth scampered away as if he’d branded her and Ben backed further into the corner of the room, feeling sick and dizzy. The moment he’d always feared was upon him, and he could hardly parse his own emotions, let alone the bewildering softness of the man before him.

“Now tell me, Ben,” Armitage ordered. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Ben blurted without thought.

”You know damn well what,” Armitage said, suddenly harsh. “I want to see for myself if you are as she says.”

“You can’t,” Ben stammered.

“I can’t? I’ll do as I damn well please, Ben.” He strode over to the desk and began opening drawers at random, inspecting their contents. He examined the trunk next, offering Ben a cold smirk of his glass-colored eyes as he discovered the leather scourge, tossing aside Ben’s clothes and few possessions like they were bits of flotsam. Ben bore it, praying hopelessly that he would not find it, would not look where it was hidden—

Armitage started towards the bookshelf and Ben lunged for him, throwing his arms around Armitage’s waist and dragging him away from the shelf. Armitage thrashed in his grip a moment before the top of his skull collided with Ben’s nose. Ben let go and his nose spurted blood but he stumbled towards the shelf nonetheless, shoving Armitage away and giving chase as he scrambled nimbly over the mattress. Ben lunged and caught the hem of his blanket which slipped easily off his shoulders; Ben  gave a roar of frustration and clambered over the bed only to have Armitage smash the desk chair into his chest, expression light and playful as a fox.

Armitage reached the bookshelf and began shoving armfuls of books to the ground. Ben recovered from the chair and charged towards him just as one dainty hand seized the box; Ben threw all his weight at him and knocked him into the bedside table.

Armitage  gave a high, gleeful cry as Ben seized his waist and tossed him onto the bed, the box still clutched in his arms. Ben’s blood boiled as it had the night when he’d attacked him, single-minded and so enraged, enraged beyond words.

Ben ripped the box from his hands and threw it aside, seizing Armitage’s throat with one hand and his still-healing side with the other, making him scream with delight and plant his boot in Ben’s stomach. Ben curled but threw himself on top of Armitage’s slim form, ripping at his lips with his teeth and clawing at his delicate ribcage—

Armitage slipped suddenly off the bed and Ben snarled at the loss, arrested suddenly by strong, cold hands pulling at his breeches. His cock throbbed terribly and was suddenly engulfed in the most delicious heat; Ben groaned aloud and collapsed against the mattress, propping himself up with trembling arms, Armitage’s head between his weakening thighs. His mouth felt like nothing Ben had ever felt before, hot and silky-wet like a dream of flesh, moving and stroking around him. Ben gasped, breathing hard as if from the most strenuous exertion, grabbing clumsily at Armitage’s head, pulling himself in deeper—

Ben yelped in panic as something hot and slimy pushed  _ inside  _ him, shock and shame searing into him at the intrusion. He jerked away but sharp teeth pricked at him and Ben gasped in pain, hoisting himself mostly by his arms and failing legs as Armitage’s finger pushed ever-deeper inside his body. A second slimy addition joined the first and Ben whimpered in overlapping waves of pain and deep pleasure as Armitage’s perfect mouth pulled endless waves of heat  pushing through Ben’s core , contrasting with the sharp, searing pain of penetration, moving gently in and out.

Within breathless moments Ben was shaking and clawing at the covers, gasping and groaning in Armitage’s relentless thrall. The pleasure was too much now and burned the same as the pain and he pleaded desperately for release—

Armitage’s fingers shifted and curled and Ben cried out in terror as his entire body blossomed, his hips and back jerking as he gasped out the most pure and horrifyingly complete canon blast of bliss that knocked him limp. A white rush like the roar of the ocean drowned his ears and he groped around blindly for any anchor, thrown about in a torrent of pleasure like a tiny wooden craft.

When at last his eyes opened, Armitage was primly wiping Ben’s come from his pretty plush lips and glaring down at him with the sternness of a tutoress.

“What—what did you do to me?” Ben gasped. His head ached terribly and his whole body still spasmed.

“Don’t blame me for you falling on your arse,” Armitage snapped, looking terribly on airs for someone who had moments prior been pleasuring Ben on his knees. “What a pathetic bumbling virgin you are.” He rubbed his narrow hand clean quite thoroughly on Ben’s shirtsleeves and Ben found himself too weak to protest.

Before he could beg him to stop, Armitage stood and tucked the box neatly under his arm.

“Pathetic,” Armitage sniffed, then turned smartly on his heel and strode away, slamming the door shut behind him. It did not lock.

Ben spent the next week in what felt like the most agony he’d experienced in his life. The strange encounter with Armitage had left him more hungry than satiated and all the sinful grunting and pulling at his cock with his hand did nothing but fuel the awful fire. He longed for that enveloping touch again, he would have gladly slain an army of men for Armitage as his prize.

The very thought made his mouth water and his heart shiver at his own wickedness. He imagined Armitage bare, his beautiful snowy body and cool copper hair, swallowing his cock, but the roughness of his hand was no comparison to the silky heat of Armitage’s mouth and each meager response of his cock was more despondent than the last. Then he imagined Armitage on his back, slim legs splayed for him, and engrossed himself in the fantasy of how the forbidden pleasure of pushing inside him would feel, tighter than his mouth and just as wet. He imagined Armitage’s sweet cries as Ben came inside him, how he would mewl and beg, how small he would be in Ben’s arms as Ben took him, biting little bruises into his pale neck.

None of this did anything but stoke the flames as Ben gathered pillows and thrust into them, as his cock was getting rather raw from his hands alone. He felt pathetic and ashamed and those feelings only made him think of Armitage all the more - his sharp, sneering face and his hot, terrible mouth and the strange, filthy magic of his fingers.

Ben had never felt so drawn to someone he had not killed, so obsessed with every feature, every fantasy and daydream branded with their likeness. He had never wanted someone so much who had not later died by his hand. This thought would have instilled horror in him except he knew now that he could not kill Armitage. Maim, yes, and his imagination often delved into how he would make Armitage bleed and hurt and beg for more, but he couldn’t kill him.

Armitage wouldn’t let him. All those others had, so pliant and easy. Armitage was a real challenge, a thrill to his blood. Ben imagined his conquest over and over, how it would feel to indulge himself that sweet treat, to have Armitage’s delicate body all for his own.

The door wasn’t locked and he was free to seek him out at any time, but Ben’s heart pounded awfully at the very thought.  He imagined Armitage’s quick eyes flicking over him, a high, cruel laugh, or, perhaps worse, just confusion or disgust. So he shied away and kept himself secluded in his tower, shamefully naked days at a time, trying desperately to satiate his lust.

That was how he found himself with his wrist locked between his legs at the most uncomfortable angle, fingers stuffed up inside himself, all pain and frustration. He rocked on his own hand, trying to find purchase but found none, gritting his teeth against the sensation.

He gave up quickly and often, feeling filthy and unsatisfied, but he kept trying with a dogged persistence that should have embarrassed him had he not entirely taken leave of his senses.

Finally, one night when it was fearfully cold and the rain and wind howled outside the window, Ben ventured forth from the room. The past few days his meals had been brought to the door and left with a knock, but that night nothing had been forthcoming. He dared not to go near the servants so he went fearfully to Armitage’s study and found it empty.

Ben’s heartbeat sped to the breakneck pace of a stallion galloping down the battlefield. With mounting trepidation, he stalked quietly towards Armitage’s chambers, hands clammy with sweat. When he at last arrived he paced indecisively at the door for what felt like hours, drawing near to knock and then scuttling away, repeating the dreadful cycle over and over.

 

 

Finally he summoned the temerity to knock and gave the door a few sharp raps.

The door opened and Armitage himself stood in the doorframe, illuminated like a splendid, beautiful book by the lamplight.

“I need you,” Ben blurted before he could possibly stop himself. At the sight of Armitage’s face the fire raged wildly and he could feel his mouth watering as if he were some delectable morsel. “I need you right now, I can’t stop thinking about it, I—“

“Oh, Ben,” Armitage said with a soft, gentle smile. Ben itched to put his hands around his waist and devour him on the spot. “That’s very sweet. I was about to dress for bed, you came at just the right time.”

Ben hardly questioned that he seemed to be expecting him and lurched through the door at the first invitation. His stomach roiled and his palms prickled with sweat; his cock was already achingly hard, primed by the interceding week of torture.

“Now be a good boy and get on your knees,” Armitage said.

Ben obeyed instantly, dropping to the flagstoned floor hard enough to make himself wince.

“Good,” Armitage said, then turned around and walked leisurely towards his wardrobe. His feet were bare on the sumptuous rugs and Ben stared at his slim, dainty ankles, the half-healed cuts where the harpsichord wire had sliced through his flesh.

He removed his doublet first, undoing every single tiny button and shelling it off with a graceful gesture. Then his shirtsleeves, slipping them off his slender shoulders and putting them aside. His back was long and lithe and beautiful and Ben swallowed hard over the thickening lust in his throat.

“Don’t touch yourself, it’s obscene,” Armitage scolded, not turning to deliver the admonition, then as Ben flushed feverishly and lowered his hand he untied the black silken ribbon holding his hair back at the base of his neck, letting it fall and settle over his back, shining long and tantalizing in the lamplight. He selected a sheer, lacy nightshirt—fine and unspeakably beautiful, most likely the ardent labour of a skilled artisan in France or Italy—and slipped it on, immediately afterwards undoing his belt and breeches and stepping gracefully out of them.

Ben could hardly contain himself at the sight of his long, slender legs, the soft thighs and creamy buttocks, perfectly round. The way he moved and bared himself was obscene but unbearably tantalizing. Ben could hardly keep himself quiet and his hands locked at his sides, triumphing only with an effort of will. His knees ached terribly on the harsh, cold stones and he longed for the heat of Armitage’s mouth, the memory even stronger now in the face of his naked body.

Armitage climbed gracefully onto his bed, a huge and sumptuous thing, covered in deep crimson covers embroidered with gold thread. The frame itself was heavy, dark and oaken; his pale skin and fiery hair shone against the rich backdrop of regal crimson and gold hangings. He arranged the beautifully wrought lamp next to him, picked up a thick pamphlet—Ben could not make out the title—,crossed his alluring legs, and began to read.

After a few moments Ben shifted, hoping the noise would remind Armitage of his presence, but to no avail. Stricken, Ben found a clock on the mantle and stared at it in desperation, eventually falling to admiring the craftsmanship. Then he watched the fire roar in the extravagant fireplace, transfixed by how the flames licked at the stone walls, throwing dancing yellow beams across the room. Then he let his eyes roam over the tapestried walls, all crimson and gold, showing in one with rich detail the capture of the unicorn, another in great bloody detail the passion of Christ, obviously a favorite of Armitage’s.

On his bureau lay a fine golden mirror and brush as well as a clutter of powders and jars that contained a myriad of enigmas, products Ben vaguely recalled Lady Organa owning as well. In a china case Ben discovered a collection of ornate daggers and blades, each encrusted with intricate details and all gleaming wickedly sharp. Ben shivered as he imagined why Armitage might keep them so close to his bed, then indulged a momentary fantasy of using them on Armitage’s breathtaking body, a fantasy that quickly engulfed him and ended rather abruptly when he found himself massaging his own cock and choking back a moan.

Ben snapped his arms behind his back and forced himself to look away from the collection of knives, focusing instead on the heavy crimson drapes, the elaborate gold embroidery. Every surface in the room gleamed dark and beautiful, as if Armitage had chosen every surface to reflect his beauty all the more radiant.

Ben checked the clock again, hopeful. It had been just shy of half an hour. He shifted loudly again, watching Armitage where he lay propped against the sumptuous pillows, hoping for a reaction.

There was none.

Ben distracted himself in miserable, unbearable silence, combing over Armitage’s chambers until he’d noticed every detail - the chafed loops around the bedposts where ropes had been, the fur by the fireplace that was stained with what could have been blood, the uneaten bits of bread or fruit that had been swept aside and forgotten.

Eventually he watched the clock, agonized physically and mentally, his knees screaming in protest where the stone dug into his bones. Even his back ached, his cock throbbing at every movement, his head and heart still pounding with anticipation. Sweat trickled down his back, prickling all the way, and Ben bit at his lip. It had been nearly three hours and the room now felt insufferably hot and cold at once; he wished to scream, yell, anything to get attention. Armitage was idly rubbing his narrow feet together and Ben found the movement unbearably tantalizing.

He cleared his throat, loudly, finding it sore and parched. Armitage barely shifted, looking arch and contented against his pillows.

Summoning all his courage, Ben said, “I’m...still here.”

Armitage looked up from his pamphlet. “I know you are, darling,” he said softly, then returned to his reading.

Two of the most agonizing hours of Ben’s life later, Armitage came to life, sitting up and stretching, arms high over his head and slender torso bending. Then he slipped off the bed and padded gracefully to where Ben knelt. “All right, darling. You’ve been very good.”

“Can I...?” Ben asked, breathless, hardly daring to hope.

“Not yet,” Armitage said with a pretty pout, kneeling down and pressing a thumb to Ben’s lips. “You did hurt me quite terribly, after all. I want to know you’ll be obedient before I trust you.”

Ben nodded eagerly. Armitage could have asked him to swallow hot coals and he likely would have agreed. “What do you need?”

Armitage smiled sweetly. “Brush my hair. Come here, I’ll show you how.”

Ben staggered to his feet, nearly collapsing as his back and knees and hips groaned and cracked in protest. Armitage sat down on the velvet chair in front of the vanity and patted the chair next to him. Ben sat obediently and gratefully and Armitage pressed the gold hairbrush into his hand.

“Five hundred strokes to each side and no less,” Armitage told him, and gathered his hair over his shoulders for Ben to reach. “I’ll be counting too so don’t think of doing any fewer.”

Ben nodded and put a hand to Armitage’s head before tangling the brush in his silky copper strands. He’d done the same for Rey many, many times and knew how painful it could be if done improperly. Armitage gave him a pleased smile in the mirror and Ben glowed at the praise.

“Not so fast, darling, you’ll break the strands,” Armitage admonished and Ben flushed, slowing to a crawl, Armitage’s cool, impossibly soft hair shifting like sand through his hands. He longed to kiss it, run his lips over it, shower Armitage’s body in worship and adoration, be allowed to touch him in any way except this slow torture. But he kept going, careful, deliberate, counting as he went. When the first half was done it shone like brushed gold and Ben couldn’t help but feel a spark of pride.

“Good,” Armitage whispered, and closed his fingers briefly over Ben’s wrist.

When at last he was done Armitage took the brush from him and gave him a gentle smile. “Thank you, Ben,” he said, sending fluttering wings tearing through Ben’s stomach. “Now will you help me put ointment on my wounds? The physician says if I do it every day I’ll hardly scar and I’ll be smooth again.”

As if to punctuate his point, he dragged his fingers down his ribs, where the wounds Ben inflicted raged, angry and bumpy and red.

“Of course,” Ben said. His throat had constricted to the point he could barely breathe. He accepted the jar of ointment and struggled to open it with clumsy hands; Armitage watched him in passive amusement and lifted his lacy nightshirt when he finally succeeded.

Ben dipped his fingers into the jar and rubbed the wound over Armitage’s stomach. Touching it was like carving it into him all over again and he flushed even further, his cock straining furiously against his breeches. Ben shifted on the chair and focused on Armitage’s stomach. He was sinfully soft and trembled just slightly when Ben’s fingers dragged over his wounds. Ben traced every single one carefully with the ointment, rubbing it in slowly and gently. He wanted Armitage to heal. Cutting into fresh skin was so much better than cutting through old scars.

He did the same for the burn scar over his hipbone, trying not to notice the copper curls or the tender rosy cock nestled between his legs, and failing. The scar, he knew, wouldn’t heal to be smooth, would stay in the shape of that crucifix ring, the cross burned into Armitage’s skin forever. Ben tended his arms and wrists and then his ankles, feeling a state of strange holiness wash over him, as if he were tending to the stigmata of Christ.

“Don’t forget up here,” Armitage said, and Ben stood up from his kneeling position to see Armitage touching the mostly-healed cuts under his cheekbones. With trembling hands and breath Ben dipped his fingers into the ointment and traced under Armitage’s cheek, watching his pale eyelashes shudder at the touch, then did the same with the other, his heart racing so fast he thought it might burst from his chest.

“Thank you, Ben,” Armitage breathed, his hot breath tickling Ben’s cheek. “That felt so good. Did you enjoy it, too?”

“Yes,” Ben said, and it wasn’t a lie. “May I touch you more?”

Armitage smiled sweetly. “My shoulders do ache terribly,” he said, and swept aside his hair in expectation.

Ben touched his slim, bony shoulders, hesitantly at first, then pushed deeper and harder until Armitage was moaning softly, spine arching. His back was indeed a myriad of knots and tension and the feeling of having his body come undone in his hands and melt against him made Ben’s breath quite short.

“Ohh,” Armitage breathed. “Ben, that feels so good.” He lifted a pink shoulder to his cheek, which was also tinged with a blush. “Can you go a bit harder?”

Ben shifted uncomfortably around his aching cock and obliged, pressing his thumbs into Armitage’s shoulder blades until he gave a tiny gasp.

“ _ Oh, _ ” Armitage breathed again, and Ben could feel him trembling under his hands. He stood suddenly and took Ben by the arm and led him to the bed. Ben’s heart hammered powerfully against his ribs—now was his time—

Armitage crawled onto the bed and patted a spot beside him. “Take off your boots,” he said. “I don’t want them ruining the sheets.”

Ben kicked off his boots and clambered eagerly onto the mattress, nearly slipping off in his haste. Armitage smiled indulgently and let him grab at his waist, parting his lips to let Ben kiss them. Ben breathed him in, almost overwhelmed, tears pricking his eyes and his lungs constricting. He bucked his hips clumsily against Armitage’s, his kisses a little too wet as he clung to his soft, yielding waist.

After a few moments Armitage pulled away, pressing a soft finger to Ben’s lips. “Enough of that, now,” he said, letting Ben pull him into his lap and settling his meager weight against Ben’s hips. “I want you to tell me a story.”

Ben blinked away a fugue state of lust. “A story?”

“Yes. You are a knight, are you not? Tell me of your adventures.” Armitage leaned his head into Ben’s shoulder and inadvertently shifted so that his modest yet plump buttocks were pressing rather heavily against Ben’s erection. “You can touch me a little if you want,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ben’s hands slipped under the nightshirt and he touched one small, pert nipple, feeling it harden under his fingers. Armitage sighed and pressed his own palm to Ben’s other hand, bringing it up to his other.

“Well,” Ben said, stalling to cast about desperately for a story worth telling, “my father has this bosom friend from the New World, his name’s Chewie—well, that’s what we called him, only my father can pronounce his name properly, I’m afraid. He doesn’t speak a word of Spanish or English or any European language but he’s terribly kind and clever and he taught me how to hunt when I was a boy. His favored weapon is the crossbow and he can take down a man at a hundred yards. We once rescued a band of travelers from bandits together and it turned out that among their party was the crown prince of Austria.”

“That’s terribly exciting,” Armitage breathed, shifting again and making Ben wince as his soft buttocks kneaded his aching cock. “I should love to meet an Austrian prince. Do you speak any German?”

“A little,” Ben said. “From my father.”

“Is he German?” Ben was starting to think all this torturous movement wasn’t entirely accidental.

“Yes,” Ben said. “He was knighted by Henry VII after the War of Roses—“

“I know,” Armitage sighed, and hugged Ben’s arms around his waist. “Do you like this, Ben? Do you want more?”

“Yes,” Ben said immediately, clutching onto Armitage’s hands. “Yes, please, please, I need it.” He buried his face in Armitage’s neck, breathing in the sweet lemony scent of his hair.

Armitage unwrapped his arms and turned around to straddle Ben’s hips, pale lashes downcast as he focused on undoing the buttons of Ben’s shirtsleeves. Ben grabbed his hips and winced apologetically as Armitage hissed in pain as Ben’s fingers dug into his wounds. Armitage slipped Ben’s shirt from his shoulders and Ben wriggled out of it, panting with eagerness; Armitage fumbled with the breeches and Ben all but ripped them off, pulling free his cock, already pearling shamefully with come.

“Oh, Ben, you’re so ready for this,” Armitage moaned with breathy decadence, pressing a palm to Ben’s chest and pushing him onto his back. Ben kicked off his breeches entirely and couldn’t keep from whining aloud as Armitage ground his hips against Ben’s straining cock. “Have you been palming yourself all this time? All you had to do was ask, you know. I’m always willing to reward my things if they behave.”

“I’m not your—“ Ben began, but Armitage silenced him with a hot, silken kiss.

“I have your secrets,” Armitage breathed, trailing kisses over Ben’s chest, too pleasurable to bear. “I’m the only one who can control you and I’m the only one who can give you what you need. I own you, wouldn’t you say?”

Ben whined and wriggled in Armitage’s grasp, thinking of the knives in the case, of the salt and the dungeon.

“No, no, darling, don’t fret,” Armitage murmured. “I don’t mean anything dreadful. I want to give you what you want, you’ve been such a good boy. But you’re not ready for what you’re thinking of, you’ll hurt me again, you’re so dreadfully inexperienced. Do you understand, darling?”

Ben nodded. His chest was constricted terribly and he could hardly form words. “Please,” he gasped, grasping at Armitage’s waist.

“Don’t worry,” he said as he parted Ben’s legs. Ben whined at the touch and jerked his hips uselessly upwards. “I’ll teach you how to use your cock properly, darling, but it will take time. I promise you’ll enjoy your education very much,” he added sweetly, and traced a thin stripe up the underside of Ben’s cock with the tip of his tongue, suckling briefly at the head. Ben writhed and moaned, grasping at the bed frame for support, and nearly kicked Armitage by accident as he lapped at his tip with tiny little strokes, licking up the bead of come.

“The jar on the bedside table, darling,” Armitage hummed, and Ben groped desperately for a jar, nearly knocking over the lamp and sending the pamphlet flying in his haste. His hand curled around the jar and he pressed it eagerly into Armitage’s awaiting palm.

Armitage twisted it open with careless calm, Ben whining and begging him to hurry. “Don’t be so needy,” he scolded, though Ben noticed through a haze of lust that his eyes sparkled with either amusement or his own pleasure. “You should be grateful I’m taking a slow pace. You’ll thank me for it soon, I wager.”

He scooped a healthy portion of what looked like oil or animal fat from the jar and rubbed it between his long fingers, then pushed Ben’s hips down.

“Relax for me now, Ben,” he said, and Ben could hardly imagine what he meant. He found out quickly as Armitage’s finger pushed into him, slick and cold. Ben whimpered and clung to the top of the headboard, trying not to cry out or kick.

“Relax,” Armitage repeated, easing his finger in and sucking hot kisses between Ben’s thighs. “I know it’s hard, but try for me, Ben, darling. It’ll make this so much nicer.”

Ben took a deep breath and forced it out, willing the loosening sensation to carry to the tight ring of flesh around Armitage’s finger. Armitage cooed praise and gave his cock a wet kiss; Ben felt tears prick at his eyes, gasping in exertion. Doing this after his own failed attempts was much more painful but he had to cede that Armitage was far more gentle and skillful than he had been.

“Just like that, darling,” Armitage breathed. “Deep breaths, the first is the hardest, I promise.” He bit more kisses into Ben’s thighs and Ben moaned deeply as he pushed in further, then in and out, gentle and slower than before.

“Tell me about the things in your box,” Armitage murmured, and for a moment Ben was so shocked he almost pulled away. Then, timidly, he said, “The drawings. They’re—they’re not bad, they’re from our ward. Her name is Reyes. She loves to draw and paint, she’d be an artist if she were a man. Maybe even though she’s not—“ he broke off as Armitage slipped a second finger in, gritting his teeth and trying not to clench around the intrusion.

“Tell me about the hair,” Armitage prompted as Ben panted around the second finger.

“She—she was a milkmaid. Dark hair, red lips. I thought about her for days, how she would look—look opened up, not like—not like this, her, her insides—“

“I know,” Armitage breathed. “Like jewels in all that blood.”

“Yes,” Ben said, too loudly, as Armitage pushed in a third finger. He felt full and for the first time the stretching, pulling pain didn’t feel bad, felt good, like a current through him. “That was the first time I’d—touched inside and it—was softer than I thought, but some of it was firm—“

A smile curled on Armitage’s pink lips. “Was she dead?”

Ben bit at his lip. He had thought she was but then as he’d reached inside her she’d stirred. He’d jolted in panic and had nearly run away and left her entirely but the feel of her was too tantalizing, so he’d wrenched her neck to the side until she was still and broken.

“Yes,” he said at last, his voice shaky with the motion of Armitage’s hand. “She was.”

Armitage gave his cock a small slap. “Liar.”

Ben cried out, biting at his lip until he tasted blood. “She wasn’t,” he confessed.

“See?” Armitage said and kissed his still-smarting cock. “I know you so well already.” He picked up the pace and Ben moaned, shifting and writhing on the bed. “How about the bones?”

“An old man’s ribs,” Ben gasped. “He was an orchard keeper in the countryside. I broke him apart, I had to keep a piece—I left him for the buzzards, he smelled awfully before a dog found him—“

“The teeth,” Armitage interrupted. There was a heat in his eyes that wasn’t due to the obscene noises his hand made in Ben’s body. He was breathing hard, pink lips falling open.

“Twin boys,” Ben replied. “They were sick with the plague and were left in the cold to die. It was a mercy killing.”

Armitage let out harsh laugh, sharp teeth flashing. “That’s a wonderful story, Ben. What did you do to them first?”

“I took off their feet,” Ben breathed. “I took their feet and I made them walk to the well where I buried them.”

Armitage groaned. His thin chest was rising and falling rapidly, lips parting like in Ben’s fantasies. “The fur. Tell me about the fur.”

“A stray cat,” Ben replied instantly. “I fed her for months, petted her every day. She loved me. Then I took her fur.”

“Yes,” Armitage gasped. “Yes, so did I. I cut off the head and hid the body in the pantry so the servants would find it. Except the rats found it first.” He laughed, bright and delighted. He withdrew his fingers and Ben whined at the emptiness. “Tell me more,” Armitage growled, pushing him over onto his front and pulling his hips up. Ben propped himself up with trembling legs, arousal and the crackling fire burning his chest. “Tell me about the ribbon.”

Ben pushed down a throb in his chest, letting Armitage spread his legs. The ribbon was a sore story, yet. “A girl,” he gasped. “I found her in the snow. She would never have lived had I not found her. She said she had been separated from her fiancé. I felt sorry for and tried to bring her to the village, but I...I couldn’t control myself and I...tore her apart. The fiancé caught up with me and challenged me to a duel. I killed him.”

“Good,” Armitage breathed, and suddenly Ben felt a pressure against him. Armitage gasped softly and he  _ felt  _ it, hot and pushing him open, nothing like the fingers at all, so much more. He gasped himself and tore at the sheets, spit falling from his open lips. Armitage thrust against him and Ben yelled, overwhelmed, senses narrowed to only that fullness and movement, shifting in him and dragging inside— “I bet she looked so good like that, Ben. Her blood in the snow. Did you bury them together or leave them for the dogs?”

“The dogs,” Ben gasped and Armitage moaned, clutching at his waist and thrusting with renewed force. “They weren’t recognizable—the villagers—they thought it was a wolf, a—a werewolf. Sent to punish them.”

“Yes,” Armitage cried into his shoulder. “Fuck—yes. You’re the wolf. You were the wolf all along—you’re so good, Ben—"

“Fuck,” Ben gasped in reply. He could barely formulate sentences, so breathless and spread open—what he needed and more— “The earrings,” he panted. “You—never asked—earrings.”

“Tell me,” Armitage snarled. His voice sounded strained, tight, as if he were the one being fucked.

“They were from a lady,” Ben gasped out. “I killed—her and I fucked—her. After. At—at Devan’s. Lady Dunne. I—I cut her open—“

He yelled hoarsely as Armitage clawed into his back and shoulders with a loud cry of his own, knifing around him and flooding his body with heat, all the way to the fire in his chest. Armitage clung to him as if dying, wrapping his arms and legs around Ben as he gasped and panted, hips jerking and nails cutting into Ben’s shoulders.

“Ben,” he gasped, so close to his ear Ben could feel his breath. “That was you.  _ Ben. _ ”

“Yes,” Ben replied and sank to the mattress, because that was all he could think to say.

After a few moments Armitage stirred. Ben whined when he pulled out of him, wriggling as Armitage’s fingers pushed into him again.

“Shh, darling,” Armitage breathed. “This will be fun for you, I promise.”

Ben groaned out wordless assent, jerking against the bed as Armitage wormed inside him, fingers curling and rubbing like magic, reaching the deepest part of him. His muscles, tense from the activities of moments before, melted into the bed as Armitage undid him from the inside, massaging that inner spot as Ben had his shoulders. He shuddered and gasped and mewled against the covers, rubbing his suddenly-sensitive chest against the bed, arching his back and clutching at the sheets—

He came with concussive force, ears ringing, drifting bonelessly. Armitage’s fingers touched his lips and he sucked at them, frowning at the bitter taste.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Armitage said. “Less teeth, darling. You’ll learn to use your mouth, first, so you ought to get in all the practice you can now.” He pressed a sloppy kiss to the back of Ben’s neck and curled an arm around his chest; Ben settled against his chest, now warm and radiating heat.

“We’re going to do such terrible things,” Armitage whispered as his eyes drifted shut. Ben squeezed his hand weakly in answer, mind buzzing with exertion, satiation, and sleep. “Just you wait, Ben, darling. Just you wait.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for:
> 
> Nonconsenting torture, non-sexual drugging, psychological torture, gaslighting, improper masturbation (Ben out here keepin it real lmao), dubcon if you squint for it, discussion of graphic/disturbing content as dirty talk (not a joke), d/s elements, and non-sexual abuse of a side character. Also there's a bit where it might seem sexual noncon will happen but it doesn't.
> 
> This sounds really bad and it probably is so hit me up on [tumblr](http://firstordershitposting.tumblr.com) with any questions and I'll get you all the details you need! Also if you have any other concerns about the arc of the storyline I'd be happy to speak to you about it! (I'm talking about the MCD tag, which exists). I'll work with ya here and if you really are invested and don't wanna see some stuff I'll send you a doc with the bits taken out /summarized <3
> 
> ON the bright side, I have the whole thing firmly plotted out and chapters pretty firmly allotted! It's gonna be over 200k it looks like and I'm aiming to update monthly so.........you do the math lmao. Oh also I'm hoping to post the next chap on Christmas, so look out for that!
> 
> Anyway I'm sorry this note is getting so long but I didn't really fuck with history much in this chapter so....that's about it! Hope y'all enjoy, shit's L I T.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, Christmas update, eh. Yeah. Christmas is totally in March, right? (please see chapter warnings in notes below)

 

A knock sounded at the door and Ben rolled over, uncurling from his fetal position on his bed. The door opened and Armitage stepped through, looking resplendent as if he and Ben hadn’t fucked like wicked pagans the night prior.

“Feeling any better,  darling ?” Armitage inquired, solicitous and soft. His fingers stroked Ben’s cheek. “I’ve been awfully worried about you. Will you take some breakfast? It would make me feel so much better if you did.”

Ben attempted a smile and pulled himself upright against the pillows. The memory surged up again, of waking up next to Armitage, soaked in horrible things and the memory of confessing his most terrible deeds sour and soapy on the back of his tongue like bile. He’d lurched out of bed and vomited on the floor, Armitage calling after him as he struggled into his shirt and breeches and wrenched open the door to flee, barefoot and on the edge of vomiting again. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you  dearest ,” Armitage said softly. “Are you well? I fear I’ve hurt you somehow.”

Ben swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly not,” Armitage said, gesturing for the tooth-missing servant to bring forth the tray bearing Ben’s breakfast. “Come now, Ben, you can speak to me freely. You know I won’t judge you harshly.”

“It was wicked,” he blurted out suddenly before he could stop himself. He had promised himself he would not broach the topic of Ren with Armitage, and yet here he was, speaking out like a child. “It was wicked,” he said again after a steadying breath. “I regret my conduct.”

Armitage’s eyebrow raised. “You gave quite the opposite impression last night.”

Ben flushed, feeling as if he must defend himself. “That’s just it,” he snapped. “It wasn’t me. It was wicked and evil, just like everything else he does.”

Armitage blinked,  sunsoaked eyes blank with confusion. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “Who is ‘he’?”

Ben looked away, biting at his lip and focusing on his reflection in a tureen of oatmeal. He looked positively dreadful, dark and lean like a starving dog. “He’s a demon,” he said, lowly. “He...he takes over sometimes. I can’t stop it, I just...” he gestured helplessly, “wake up and...he’s done the most terrible things. I hate it, desperately.”

He swallowed again to keep from crying. Armitage was the first person he’d spoken to about the demon, never even breaching the subject with a priest.

“I see,” Armitage said. “So everything that transpired was the action of this...demon?”

Ben resisted the urge to cross his arms, and settled for lifting his chin in defiance. “Yes. Disbelieve me all you want, I don’t care.”

“I don’t disbelieve you, Ben,” Armitage said, and he sounded so sincere Ben felt a gross, thick sob rising within his chest despite himself. “I simply must ask...is there then no love for me at all in you?”

Ben hesitated. “I...I don’t know,” he whispered. “You...he likes you. You draw him out. I feel his pull, even now.” He gripped one hand around the wrist of the other to keep from fidgeting or lashing out. “I’m...I’m being torn apart. I adore you and you repulse and terrify me. How can I feel both at once?”

“Don’t fret, my dear ,” Armitage said softly, and tucked a stray hair behind his ear. “You’re such a tumultuous little thing, I see that. But I love you, demon and all. Does my demon adorer have a name, or am I to refer to him only as ‘him’?”

Ben swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Ren,” he said softly, as if the name itself were a curse not to be spoken aloud. “Kylo Ren.”

“Well,” Armitage said, and lifted Ben’s hands to kiss his knuckles. “Give my love to Kylo Ren.”

Ben shuddered. If he knew—but he  _ did  _ know. He knew the depths of Ren’s depravity. He’d felt it firsthand. And yet he kissed the hands that hurt him?

It occurred to him somewhere in his mind that he did likewise, but the thought drifted away quickly and he was too tired to chase it down.

Armitage favored him with a sweet smile and fussed over his breakfast, nestling the tray in his lap and insisting upon tucking the napkin under his chin like he was a child. Then he fed it to him morsel by morsel, ignoring the heat on Ben’s cheeks as he ate the berries from Armitage’s fingers.

“I can eat on my own, you know,” Ben said eventually, when Armitage had started cutting up the bread into slices and was intent on feeding him each one.

“I know, dearest,” Armitage said. “But it pleases me so. Indulge me this, won’t you?”

Ben did, and he continued to indulge him after breakfast was finished and Armitage slipped under the covers with him and snuggled close, wrapping his arms around Ben’s chest, and indulged him even further when Armitage dropped off into a light, peaceful sleep, cheek pressed against Ben’s arm.

He was unfairly pretty, after all. The two of them hardly fit in Ben’s bed and his long, slender legs were tangled with Ben’s own.

Then Armitage stirred and stretched and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Ben’s lips. “My mother sent a message,” he said, his voice lazy with sleep. “We’re invited to tea this afternoon at the cottage. You must come. She’s so anxious to meet you properly.”

Ben could hardly imagine Lady Madeline to be anxious about anything, save perhaps the apocalypse. “I’m—I’m not sure I’m feeling well—“

“Of course you are,” Armitage insisted. “We’ll both put on our finest and I promise we’ll go to Mass for Christmas, wouldn’t you like that?”

Ben admitted that he would like that, but personally did not see how attending Mass should be a proper reward for going to tea with Lady Madeline. In the end Armitage looked so wretched and imperious that he agreed anyway, leading to Armitage reviving with excitement and prancing off to find him suitable clothes.

Ben pushed down his nausea and willed himself out of bed, aching sharply as he stood. As he leaned heavily over the desk and tried to paw his hair into some semblance of order, avoiding the shards of broken chair the servants hadn’t managed to sweep up, he noticed that the hollows under his eyes seemed darker than he remembered.

 

 

Some hours later Armitage had bundled him into the coach, babbling with excitement and what almost appeared to be nervousness. He’d bathed and groomed them both, trimming the ends of Ben’s hair and replacing his distressed breeches and ruined boots and promising him new ones soon, dressing him in the beautiful black and silver doublet from Lord Devan’s ball and proclaiming his apparent comeliness loudly.

He himself appeared in a white-embroidered powder blue doublet and white breeches that made him look approximately half his age, a feathered cap perched timorously on his copper head paired with shining black boots and white cotton gloves. The style was very French, and this irked Ben greatly. Coupled with this boyish ensemble was a basket of worn, old-looking needlework, which he slapped Ben’s hands away from when he attempted to investigate.

“Don’t gape so,” Armitage scolded and Ben glanced quickly away from his narrow waist. “My mother is a gentlewoman, Ben, don’t make her regret asking us.”

The rest of the coach ride passed in silence as Armitage alternately fiddled with his gloves or collar or stared out the window, jiggling his knee. Ben found this display exasperating but did not ask him to still, instead fixing his gaze out the other window and resolving not to become ill.

Then at last a great monstrosity of a house loomed and Ben could hardly believe Armitage had thought ‘cottage’ an apt descriptor. It loomed at least three stories high, sprawling and huge, with expansive grounds and iron gates that lent it a stern, foreboding demeanor. It was as misleading a name as calling the Hux castle a manor—it itself was more a manor than anything, a palace for a minor nobleman. Certainly more than an elderly widow ought to command.

Then again, Lady Madeline was hardly elderly. In fact, Ben was quite confident any man her age would be delighted to have her as a wife, her  icy demeanor notwithstanding. He glanced over at Armitage and watched his  eyes  widen as if in anticipation,  narrow throat bobbing as he swallowed .

The coach came to a halt and Armitage shoved the door open without waiting for a footman, seizing Ben’s wrist and dragging him scrambling out after him. Compared to the mansion they were impossibly small, even the great doors loomed huge and heavy.

A servant came to meet them, a young, sickly-looking boy who was even more skittish than Hux’s own. He bowed deeply then ushered them inside, taking their coats and promising to fetch the Lady Madeline. Armitage glowered impatiently at the expansive halls, the great vaunted windows and gorgeous artwork. Painted Huxes frowned down at them from their gilded frames, and Armitage fidgeted angrily as they waited.

Then the Lady Madeline herself appeared, descending from the staircase as if floating. Her heavy golden curls were motionless around her face and her beautiful gown was as vividly blue as her  eyes . If Ben had thought Armitage’s and his own garb were excessive, hers was even more so. He wondered if this was an affectation for their benefit or whether she truly dressed this finely by custom.

She’d barely stepped down the last stair when Armitage was in her arms, burying his face in her shoulder and throwing his arms around her neck like a little boy. Ben was reminded strongly of his own mother, her clean, earthy scent like rain, her firm, kind voice and warm, soft embrace.

Ben swallowed away the ache in his throat and approached mother and son with care. Tears shone in Armitage’s  eyes and she gazed down at him with an affectation of sorrow. Taken together they looked like immortals, like Venus and Adonis. Ben felt his breakfast sitting uncomfortably heavy in his stomach and regretted agreeing to come along, still feeling even more ill than before.

“Is this Lord Organa?” Lady Madeline asked when he’d finally drawn close. Her eyes locked to his and in an instant Ben felt as if she’d pierced through all the layers of his mind, seeing the secret turmoil and terror and desperate wickedness he so strove to hide.

“Yes, Mama,” Armitage said, letting his embrace of her go with apparent reluctance. “Sent here by his mother, Lady Leia Organa. Some terrible nonsense with the zealots running the Inquisition, I fear.”

“I see,” Lady Madeline said calmly. She offered Ben a  frozen smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Organa.”

“And you as well, my lady,” Ben said, and bent slightly to press his lips to her hand as Armitage watched, transfixed. “I must congratulate you on making such a beautiful home.”

“I didn’t make it,” Lady Madeline replied coolly in lieu of acknowledging the compliment. “Now Armitage, what have you here?”

At the mention of his name Armitage brightened, holding up the basket. “I kept some of your old things, Mama,” he said eagerly. “All these years. Won’t you have a look?”

“Later, once we’re upstairs, my dear ,” Lady Madeline said, stroking his shining hair and leading him up the stairs. “You’ve kept beautifully,  darling . And after so many deaths, too.”

The death of Lord Brendol, Ben presumed, trailing after them like an obedient dog. And—his stomach lurched—whomever she’d been so keen to see dead the day she’d arrived unannounced in the courtyard.

Armitage’s expression flickered slightly, at mention of his father’s passing, no doubt. “And you as well, Mama,” he said. “Will you marry, do you think?”

Lady Madeline gave a laugh like the tinkling of broken glass. “Hardly,” she replied. “I’ve had quite enough of men for a lifetime—present company excluded, of course,” she added with a dry smile. “But you understand,  darling . I’d much rather pass time with you and the countryside as company. People tire me so greatly these days.”

“Of course,” Armitage said quickly, following her into a beautiful drawing room filled with priceless china and curved, dark furniture. “I asked only for thought of you, Mama. I worry about you so much, all alone in this house.”

”Don’t worry for me,  darling ,” Lady Madeline said, smoothing Armitage’s frown with a finger and sitting him down next to her on the embroidered couch. “If anyone should be worried, it is I. Have you no thought to take a bride?”

Armitage gave her a sweet smile. “Not at present,” he admitted, accepting a cup of tea and at least three sugar cubes from the attending servant. “Ben—Lord Organa—has been keeping me company these days.”

Ben attempted not to look guilty, and, if Lady Madeline’s expression was anything to go by, failed. He sat down rather hastily and accepted a cup of tea from the passing servant, in his haste foregoing sugar or milk entirely. His insides ached rather sharply and he could feel his face flushing.

Lady Madeline’s gaze seemed to burn through him. Never taking her eyes from his, she asked, “Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Lord Organa? You young men must partake in the best adventures.”

Ben swallowed hard, glancing away from Armitage’s gimlet stare. “We have, ah, visited nature, a great bit,” he stammered, then added hastily, “I’m a great lover of nature.”

“You must pardon poor Ben,” Armitage cut in smoothly, placing his hand over his mother’s. Ben noticed her lacy gloves and found their hands to be nearly the same. “His English is quite poor and I’m afraid he’s also a terrible halfwit, as well as deaf in one ear.”

“My English is not poor!” Ben protested, and Lady Madeline and Armitage gave identical giggling laughs. “And I’m not deaf.”

“I speak in jest,  darling ,” Armitage said, and sighed as Lady Madeline idly traced her fingers through his hair. “A little joke between us. Pay it no mind.”

“We can speak French if you like,” Lady Madeline added, and Ben trained his eyes solidly on the rich carpet, swirls of red and gold and bone, feeling lost.

“I don’t speak French,” Ben muttered.

“He’s wonderful, Mama,” Armitage breathed, resting his head on her shoulder. The two sat so close they seemed entwined, still and resplendent. “He’s a knight, you know. Ben’s a wonderful companion, he’s perfect for me.”

“Mm,” Lady Madeline intoned, and Ben’s skin crawled under her gaze. Her expression was unnaturally blank, porcelain and unmoving. The expression was identical to Armitage’s and did not bode well. “Is that so.”

“I am Lord Hux’s guest, my lady,” Ben said. “He has my companionship and my gratitude.”

This did not placate her at all. If Armitage noticed her displeasure, he did not show it. “What do you think, Mama?”

“That is wonderful, indeed,” she replied, turning away from Ben to offer Armitage a fond smile. “It pleases me greatly that you’re no longer all alone in that horrid castle. One needs company aside from servants, from time to time.”

Ben frowned. Techie, who claimed to be Armitage’s brother—surely he counted as company, shunted aside and unwhole as he was. Surely Lady Madeline would ask after him, even if he were born from another woman. Unless...

Ben’s head jerked up at the revelation and both son and mother looked to him curiously. He waved their gazes away apologetically, claiming to have spilt tea on himself.

Techie was hidden away for a purpose. Ben recalled what Lady Madeline had said, the  hardened  hatred  in her eyes as she had asked, “ _ Is he dead?”  _  At the time he had wondered if she had meant the late Lord Hux. But what if she had meant the half-son from another woman?

Ben wondered keenly what had made Lady Madeline be rejected for another wife. He had at first assumed Techie was a bastard, his mother some serving girl who would have been discarded had she not died in childbirth. But given that Lady Madeline had left, fled the country—perhaps she had been under threat for her life, forced to flee or be killed so the late Lord Brendol could remarry.

Which meant—Ben looked to Armitage, where he now lay with his head on his mother’s knee, allowing her to plait the strands of his beautiful hair—if Techie had not been born blind, he would have been his father’s heir.

Speculation aside, Armitage had lied to his mother. Told her Declan was dead when he was, in fact, alive. Bullied away into the darkness and recesses of the castle and perhaps a touch mad, but alive.

Ben felt himself smile, and took another sip of his sugarless tea.

“Mama, you must come to visit,” Armitage sighed as he nibbled daintily on a biscuit. “For Christmas, perhaps. I’ve restored your rooms—your servants, it’ll all be as before.”

“Perhaps,  darling ,” Lady Madeline said, stroking Armitage’s hair. “Now what have you brought me? I gave my word I would look at it now.”

Armitage sat up eagerly, snatching up the basket and pressing it into her lap. “I saved them for years,” he breathed, watching her face closely for a reaction as she opened it. “Father never approved, but I hid them from him.”

Inside the basket was old, incomplete needlework, the fabric and thread yellowed with age. Ben had the image of Armitage as a child—how old had he been when his mother left, Ben wondered?—clinging to the pieces as he might cling to his missing mother.

“Thank you,  darling ,” Lady Madeline said, and touched his hand. “It means so very much that you kept these for me.”

Armitage beamed, looking strangely on edge. “It was nothing,” he said quickly. “Just a token.”

After a slow, small lunch consisting of dainty sandwiches and tiny, elegant cuts of meat, Armitage declared that he must check that the servants had amassed enough wood for the winter personally and whisked himself away, leaving Ben perched tenuously on the couch,  speared by Lady Madeline’s hard gaze.

“He’s quite fond of you,” she said at last, dismissing the servant and pouring herself another cup of tea. “I expect that shall pass rather quickly.”

Ben swallowed, feeling something like anger or worry rise in his throat. He took a gulp of cold tea and looked stubbornly away. “I thank you for your counsel, Lady Madeline.”

“Don’t,” she said sharply, and Ben looked back towards her. “I do not like you at all, Lord Organa. I won’t have you take Armitage from me.”

Ben fisted his hands at his sides and looked away again to glower at the floor. “I assure you, my lady, I have no intention of—“

“Quiet,” she snapped,  glacially cold . “I see your eyes. I see you as you are.”

Ben said nothing. His heart hammered in his chest; he wished to flee, escape her  judgement . He felt like a child.

“Good,” she said, then lifted her fresh needlework and began to work, piercing the fabric with deft, nimble movements. The needle flashed in the weak sunlight and Ben had the urge to pluck it from her fingers and drive it into the  thin  smile on her lips.

“Degenerate swine,” Armitage’s voice interrupted suddenly and he himself appeared seconds later, scowling. “There’s hardly enough wood in the stores to last a month. I’ve sent for some to be delivered and the keeper to be put in the stocks, the lazy buffoon.”

Lady Madeline looked up from her needlework. “There’s no need, dearest. I can manage the house myself.”

“I know, Mama,” Armitage said, with something that could have passed for earnestness. “But allow me this small chore for you.” He beamed, looking fondly between Ben and his mother. “I trust you and Ben have been getting along splendidly.”

Ben stared, at loss whether he could possibly be serious. “Splendidly.”

“Wonderful,” Armitage cooed, then lifted his mother’s hand for a kiss. “I’m sorry, Mama, but Ben and I must be away. Dreadfully boring matters of the lands, you understand.”

“Of course, my dear,” Lady Madeline said, and her smile did not unseat the frost in her eyes. “Visit soon.”

Armitage buried his head in her shoulder for one more embrace, then allowed her to escort them to the doors, looking stricken. Once they were safely back in the coach, Ben breathed a sigh of relief.

 

 

At last they came to a small village, a collection of ramshackle huts with familiar thatched roofs. At the sound of their horses’ hoofbeats the peasants ran and scattered like geese, returning to their shelters and peering out with  wide, frightened eyes.

Armitage breathed in deeply, a sneer on his face. “Ah, there it is, the country air.” His sneer deepened. “Smells rather of peasant, I should think.”

Ben snorted, amused, and immediately felt guilty. Lady Organa would lecture him that human life was equal, that they were all created equal by God and loved as His children. Ben thought that was all well and good, but in his thoughts challenged her to bear the smell of such a virtuous village for more than an hour. The figures seemed so small, crouched low to the earth from his vantage in the coach.

They drew near a structure somewhat resembling a house, with a strong wood foundation and a wood-shingled roof. It was quaint, but Ben could see its charm. The worn door swung open and a severe-faced blonde man stepped out and made haste to bow to Armitage.

“My vassal, Cyprian,” Armitage said lazily, as if the man were not kneeling in the mud for him. He stretched languidly and dismounted from the coach with a lofty spring in his step that made him seem almost weightless. Drawing near, he offered his gloved hand for the blonde man to kiss, which the vassal did dutifully.

“Welcome, my lord,” Cyprian said, his tone stern and grave. “What brings you to this corner of the fief?”

“Oh, nothing,” Armitage said with an idle wave of his hand. “Lord Organa and I were just passing by and I became dreadfully hungry. I don’t suppose you and your lovely wife could offer us tea?”

“Of course, my lord,” Cyprian said with another bow, and behind him the servants scurried into motion. “Please, if you will?”  He gestured with an arm towards the house, his fine white shirtsleeves and woven doublet catching the breeze.

Armitage favored him with a tight smile, then took Ben’s arm in his own and strode past the vassal and into the open door, handing his light coat off almost thoughtlessly to a nearby servant and lounging on the upholstered bench, his long legs stretched out and slothful. Ben avoided his eyes and sat down on a sheepskin-covered chair, folding himself into it to appear as uninteresting as possible.

“All is well, I trust?” Armitage asked Cyprian with an air of disinterest, picking up a small wrought figurine and admiring it idly. “The blasted peasants behaving themselves?”

“Of course, my lord,” Cyprian replied, sitting down before him and politely not offering any form of commentary on his sprawling posture. “They respect and fear your rule, as they should.”

Armitage hummed along in agreement, looking plainly disinterested. Ben noted with mild distress that a hole had opened in the heel of his boot, allowing mud to enter and dirty his woolen socks—knitted by Lady Organa herself during one of her ill spells. (Lady Organa engaged in many unladylike activities, and many more unbefitting her position as Lady of the fief, such as knitting. Ben had always loved that about her).

A servant appeared bearing a tray of tea and delicate sandwiches, as well as a few varieties of sweets. Armitage skimmed the tray’s contents with obvious disinterest. The servant handed him a cup—

“I’ll get that,” Cyprian said, traversing the carpeted floor to take the teacup from the servant’s hand. Ben found this slightly obsequious—vassalage did not require a man to wait on his Lord hand and foot. Ben noticed Cyprian’s index finger dip into the tea and  nearly loosed a gasp . The man’s temple was faintly beaded with sweat—was he trying to  _ poison  _ Armitage?

Armitage accepted the tea with a strangely empty smile and for the first time Ben noticed the dark-haired woman standing opposite him in the corner, her  gaze  keen with intellect, reminding him of the hawks that hunted for mice in the barnyard. Cyprian noticed his gaze and gave a polite smile. “My wife, Eoinne,” he said,  his eyes  never leaving Armitage as he held the tea precariously in one gloved hand.

Eoinne glared at her husband but said nothing, her lips pinched together so tightly they seemed white. She wore a simple, severe black dress and seemed almost to be in mourning.

Behind her, a blonde-haired boy, no older than five or six years of age, appeared in the doorway, a wooden sword clutched in one small hand. His  wide hazel eyes took in the scene, his childishly dumbfounded gaze catching on Armitage’s exotic hair.

“Colin, go play now,” Cyprian said, the tension budding in his voice.

“No, stay,” Lord Hux said, that semi-cruel smile playing on his full lips. “Colin, is it? Why aren’t you just darling. What do you think, Lord Organa? Isn’t he sweet?”

“Yes, indeed,” Ben agreed, barely hearing his words. His heart beat rapidly in his chest; if he let Armitage die now, he would never be able to commit their sin again, the dark influence lost. He had reason to protect him and let him die both—he himself would not even have to act, commit the sin himself, only the sin of inaction. And if he were wrong, he could only imagine the embarrassment—

Armitage raised the cup to his lips.

Ben’s body reacted without thought and lurched forward, slapping the poisoned cup out of Armitage’s hand and dashing it to the floor where it shattered, soaking tea into the worn carpet underfoot. His mind caught up moments later and he stood there, stock still, breathing heavily.

A knowing smile curled on Armitage’s lips and he turned the full weight of his gaze on his trembling vassal. “Why, Cyprian, one would almost think Lord Organa here suspects you of ill intent towards me. You wouldn’t know a thing about that, would you?”

Cyprian swallowed,  his pallid skin beading with sweat . “I—no, my lord, I—“

Armitage cut him off with a curt gesture and held out an arm to the boy, Colin, and smiled a smile that any animal would know was a threat. “Come here, boy. I won’t bite.”

Colin, with a child’s trust, crossed the room dutifully. His father grabbed desperately at his small shoulder but was stilled by a gimlet stare from Hux. Armitage shifted to a normal sitting position and lifted the boy into his lap, favoring him with an indulgent smile that displayed far too many of his perfect teeth. “Hello, Colin,” he said, his attention seemingly fixed on the child.

“Hello,” Colin replied,  gazing curiously at Armitage’s strange eyes . He pointed a small, sticky hand to the tray of sweets. “May I have one, please?”

Armitage’s  eyes flicked upwards to the boy’s trembling father. “I don’t know, Colin. What does your father say?”

“No!” Cyprian cried, all pretense evaporated. “No, please, my lord, spare him—“

Armitage sneered. He tapped a finger lightly on Colin’s round little nose. “Of course you can,  darling . I can’t trust a word your father says, anyways.” He selected a biscuit off the trembling servant’s tray, one with bright red jelly in the middle. “Here you are,” he said sweetly and Colin grabbed onto the biscuit with greedy hands. “Now go stand over there with Ben a moment, will you? He looks dreadfully scary but I promise he’s a noble knight. Do you want to be a knight some day?”

Colin nodded, the biscuit still clutched tightly in his hand. As soon as he was in arm’s reach Ben seized the biscuit from his hands and tossed it away. Colin’s  hazel eyes widened in fury , then his tiny face scrunched up and his mouth opened and Ben braced himself for the oncoming tirade of childish wrath—

Armitage moved so suddenly Ben almost missed him out of the corner of his eye. In a second he was on his feet; a silver flash and Cyprian clutched at his cut throat, gurgling incoherently. Little  Colin’s eyes, impossibly, widened. He clung to Ben’s breeches, burying his small face into Ben’s cloak as his father toppled before Armitage’s immaculate boots, choking and spasming and seeping blood into the carpet.

“Well,” Armitage said, with the tone of someone who had just caught a particularly bothersome fly as he cleaned his blade on the arm of the bench, “that was a terrible waste of carpet.”

Ben lifted Colin awkwardly into his arms just as the boy began to wail. He made what he hoped were calming, quieting noises but the boy just cried more loudly, bawling into Ben’s shoulder and gripping tiny fistfuls of his shirt. Armitage shot him a cold look, then extended his arms.

Ben shook his head an emphatic no, but Armitage’s expression brokered no resistance and he surrendered the child, receiving a flailing tiny foot to the ribs as he did. Armitage held the boy in his arms, rocking him against his slim hip and patting his tiny back, making soothing noises. Colin quieted slowly, then put his tiny arms around Armitage’s neck and pressed his blonde curls into his shoulder, staining the boy’s clothes with his father’s blood. His little lashes fluttered as he dipped towards sleep.

Ben looked towards the boy’s mother,  her dark hawk’s eyes , and his hand curled around the hilt of his knife. If Armitage was going to harm the boy or his mother, Ben would have to stop him.

“Thank you for the warning, Madam,” Armitage said, still swaying gently for Colin’s benefit. “Or should I say, Mistress? Now that you’re newly liberated from the bonds of marriage, and all.” He sneered briefly at his own morbid jest, then continued on. “I’ve been watching your operations for a good time, and I’m happy to say that you’re the perfect candidate for your former husband’s replacement. I trust you will continue your good work here and admirable displays of loyalty.”

Eoinne blinked, her full  brows knitted together in confusion. “Forgive me my lord,” she said in a respectful tone, but there was a haughty edge she could not quite dull. “I don’t understand. I am not fit to govern in Cyprian’s stead—“

“Oh, why not?” Armitage said with a languid wave of his hand. “You already performed most of the tasks, did you not? Or do you mean to say that the truly delightful records I received were your husband’s?”

Pride flashed upon Eoinne’s countenance and Ben was reminded of Lady Organa. She squared her shoulders. “No, my lord.”

“Good,” Armitage said. “Now, there’s the small matter of the modest duty collected outside the books.”

Eoinne did not flinch, but Ben could see her expression harden. “Yes, my lord.”

“I trust you will see to that. Otherwise,” he shifted Colin in his arms, giving the boy a doting smile as he wriggled closer, “I may be forced to take rather drastic measures.”

Now Eoinne did swallow, her lips thinning further. If she had a point of weakness, it was her son. “Yes, my lord.”

“Excellent,” Armitage said and extended his ringed hand. Eoinne bowed tersely at the waist and pressed a kiss to it. He withdrew, evidently satisfied, and patted Colin’s shoulder. “Wake up,  darling . Mother wants you.” He placed the drowsy boy in his mother’s arms and offered her a slight bow of his head. “Congratulations on your position, Madam.”

And with that he turned on his heel, stepping carelessly over Cyprian’s corpse and the growing circle of crimson at his feet. “Oh, and do have the servants prepare something  _ without  _ poison for our journey,” he said over his shoulder. “Lord Organa and I truly  _ are  _ famished.”

He snapped his fingers as if Ben were a dog and Ben followed, trying to avoid both mother and child’s eyes as he made his way out the cottage door.

 

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ben said in a low voice as soon as they had both mounted and had started out of the village. “He would have been scared enough. You didn’t have to kill him.”

“Scared enough until he wasn’t, and he got more ideas in that foolish head of is,” Armitage countered. “No, Madam Eoinne is the superior candidate. Her performance has been consistently admirable. Her husband was but a liability, for her as well as me.”

“You don’t mean,” Ben began, his eyebrows knitting together.

“I would have thought you of all people could understand, your mother being the lady she is,” Armitage said, flicking a stray blade of grass out of Ben’s hair. “Cyprian was a saddle-goose, and a traitorous one at that. Madam Eoinne has always been the brains behind the show, shall we say. Should she betray me, she shall be much more cunning and far more successful. But while it is in her best interest to remain on my side, so she shall. Getting rid of the husband was merely...economical.”

“And a way to remind her of the consequences of betrayal,” Ben said accusingly, unable to push down a buoying degree of respect. Armitage was highly attuned to the running of his estate, unlike many of the Lords Ben had known in his youth. He thought of Lady Organa slaving away late nights with many candles at her desk, running through tomes of columns of numbers and figures.

“That too,” Armitage agreed, rather brightly. “Egg sandwich?”

 

 

“H-hello, Ben.”

Ben halted mid-stride, hovering in the stable’s entrance, bewildered. “How did you—?”

“It’s your, uh, your g-gait,” Techie explained. He stood in the stables laden with old, worn furs and still shivering with cold. His soft hands fluttered down the muzzle of an old donkey the way one might rub the fading wounds of a brave, mighty warhorse. Light caught in his unkempt hair, making it shine. “You uh, st-tomp about, it’s uh, very d-distinctive.”

“Oh,” Ben said, feeling very off-balance. He bowled forwards. “Well, I wanted to apologize. For, ah, what...what I did. To your brother. It upset you terribly, I can tell.”

The stable boy snorted loudly, expression sour. He crossed his arms over his chest, abandoning his work to glare at Ben. “The only thing you have to apologize for was not finishing off the foppish bastard entirely.”

“H-he doesn’t mean that,” Techie said quickly, then clung to the donkey’s muzzle as it stepped about uneasily. “B-Ben, this is, uh, M-Matthew, he’s, uh, a friend, of mine, he uh he lets me visit D-Daffodil—this is Daffodil. She’s uh, she’s very sweet.”

Daffodil eyed Ben with diseased, weeping eyes and harrumphed loudly.

“I’m sure,” Ben said, trying to sound convinced. Matthew glared at him with even more venom.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Matthew demanded. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting him? Go shoot a deer or whatever you big noble  _ men  _ do with all your free time.”

Ben was too taken aback to be angry at his brazen rudeness. Even in the household of a normal lord, such defiance could easily earn a servant lashes. In Armitage’s house—well, Ben didn’t want to contemplate such things.

Ghostly pale fingers brushed Matthew’s arm almost too briefly to be seen and Matthew deflated slightly, still  glowering with his dark eyes from under his blonde curls. “My lord,” he added, wholly perfunctorily.

“Matthew is very protective,” Techie whispered, waving Ben closer. “Of, of me. But he’s uh, very good with animals. He uh, he keeps them for me. Would you like to see?”

“Of course,” Ben said, still feeling badly. A cold hand slipped into his and Techie advanced with stuttering steps, nodding gratefully as Matthew touched his arm lightly and let Techie grip his muscular forearm, leading all three of them onwards to the very back of the stable. They came to a stop and Matthew let go of Techie’s arm, still throwing a half-hearted glare Ben’s way.

Ben stared down at the small pen. An old, fat rabbit and a plump pigeon stared up at him, along with a smaller wooden box containing two mice.

“We had a, uh, fish in a pail but it died,” Techie whispered, sounding on the verge of heartbreak. “But uh, Petal—the-the rabbit—and Adelaide, the pigeon, they’re still a-alright. Would—would you like to hold Petal, Ben?”

Ben opened his mouth to politely decline, but Matthew interjected, “No. He wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” Techie said.

Ben resisted the urge to glower back at the surly stable hand. “I’d be happy to.”

Techie beamed and Ben could not help but to smile in return. With Matthew’s aid he soon deposited the soft, squirming bundle into Ben’s arms. The rabbit stared up at him with twitching nose and black, terrified eyes. Ben stared back, self-conscious of his own gentleness.

“It’s very nice,” he said, and tried not to think about rabbit stew.

“Petal likes you very much,” Techie said matter-of-factly, then took the rabbit from Ben’s arms and cradled it in his own. It began to chew on the ends of his hair. It looked very large compared to his small body, but was dwarfed by Matthew’s hands as he lifted it and returned it to the pen.

“I’m—I’m afraid I’m, uh, very tired, now,” Techie said weakly, and indeed he did seem to sag against the stable pen.

“I can—“ Ben began, but Matthew all but knocked him aside and lifted Techie easily in his arms.

“I’ve got him,” Matthew said, scowling Ben’s way. “You can go.”

“T-thank you for coming, Ben,” Techie said, rather faintly. “D-Daffodil always likes, uh, company.”

 

 

It was that evening after dinner that Ben broached the topic. They stood outside, alone, Armitage’s narrow shoulders piled heavily with more than one cloak. Ben had worn his own wolf coat but found it too stifling; Armitage’s face was tinged with bright pink  from the cold and seemed almost supernaturally  pale in the growing gloom.

Armitage’s  eyes tracked his falcon—a fine, rangy bird with the most impressive talons Ben had ever seen on such an animal—in the grey sky, intent on the hunt. He stood still as a statue, falconry glove extended, the wind tickling at his hair and making strands of it curl around his face.

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother.”

Armitage turned slowly, fixing Ben with a look that dared him to continue.. “I don’t have a brother.”

“You do,” Ben said. The air smelled sweet,  biting with cold ; he could scarcely remember how long they’d stood there, watching the sun slink beneath the darkening hills. Armitage did not move or resist when he took his waist in one arm, so he did not move away. “And your mother thinks he’s dead.”

“You’re deluded,” Armitage replied. Ben felt the urge to tighten his arms, to pull on his waist until he was crushed in Ben’s grip. He did not.

“You have my secrets,” he said, lowly, lips brushing against Armitage’s ear. “And I have yours.”

Armitage leaned in slightly to his embrace, tilting his head against Ben’s own. His attention was still on the falcon. “Mmm.”

“Show me things,” Ben whispered, curling his other arm around Armitage’s waist, breath catching in his chest. “I can help you. I want to help you.”

“Things?” Armitage repeated. His free hand crept over Ben’s; Ben could feel Armitage’s heartbeat going faster and found it rather difficult to breathe. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I...I know you do...bad things,” Ben confessed. “Evil things. I...I want to see.”

There was a soft  _ thump  _ as the falcon swooped in on silent wings and dropped a rabbit at Armitage’s feet. Bloodied talons clawed into his glove as it settled, the falcon rustling its wings impatiently. Ben knew that restlessness well, the agitation of an unsatiated hunter.

“You’ll see,” Armitage breathed as Ben pressed his nose to the  cool, silky hair covering his neck, breathing in Armitage’s intoxicating scent. He smelled of lemon and pine and leather and the combined scent made Ben’s mouth water, just a bit. “I promise.”

 

 

Armitage was indolently feeding Ben bits of egg and sausage with a fork, smiling and staring at Ben as if the simple act gave him all the joy in the world, when he said, “I thought you might like to see a pet project of mine, this afternoon.”

“A project,” Ben repeated, trying not to sound too wary despite feeling exactly that way.

Armitage smiled sweetly and fed him another spoon of honey-drizzled oatmeal. “One of many. You had previously expressed interest...?”

“I want to know,” Ben said instantly, and was soon thereafter silenced by a rather large piece of fruit. “I want to see.”

“Excellent,” Armitage beamed. “Oh, I promise you’ll love it, Ben. It’s all so delightful. We’ll have great fun.” He patted Ben’s hand and popped a morsel of sweetbread into Ben’s mouth. “But first I must attend my tasks for the day, thereafter we may enjoy ourselves.”

Ben did not argue. It was Advent, and he had many rituals of Scripture-reading to complete before the week of Christ’s birth. It seemed a strange thing to observe with his soul being so impure, yet it comforted him, in a way, made the other sin seem lesser by a rote, familiar practice.

All thoughts of impurity melted away as Armitage’s inviting lips met with his own in the softest of kisses. “Behave yourself while I’m away,” he said, teasingly, and ran a finger lightly down the bridge of Ben’s nose. “Don’t think of me too often.”

Ben pinned him with a half-hearted scowl as he pushed his way out the door, watching fondly as the length of Armitage’s hair swayed merrily over his back. Then he fetched some faceless Monk’s commentary on the Gospel of Mark and began to read. He couldn’t focus, his mind’s eye imagining whatever heinous things Armitage was going to reveal to him. His thoughts returned to his escapades in the dungeons and his heart sped with fear and excitement. He thought of what Armitage had done to Mitaka, transplanted onto some faceless other, thought of what Armitage had done to  _ him _ —

His cock twitched eagerly at the thought and he hastily freed it from his underclothes, spitting into his palm and curling his hand around its rapidly hardening length. A nightmarish jumble of death and torment spilled out before him and he bit at his bottom lip hard enough to feel blood well in his mouth. He came with a triumphant shout and collapsed back against the bed, sated.

After a few moments of boneless, blissful contentment, Ben could think more clearly. It had occurred to him that the whole thing might be an elaborate ruse to lure him back into the dungeon, the love and adoration of the past few days but an imitation. The thought that the affectation of love might be a performance put Ben in the foulest of moods and he picked at the thought with the bitter persistence and pleasure of one scratching at a painful wound.

The prospect of more of Armitage’s activities being revealed excited him, though. What Armitage had said about skinning cats had no doubt been true given his treatment of Mitaka and himself and they shared many more such unconventional desires.

His chest tightened and he could feel the demon curling around him. Trembling with his own fear and Ren’s excitement, Ben fetched the monk’s commentaries and began to read once more, absorbing not a word.

 

 

“Trust me,” Armitage whispered, affixing the rag around Ben’s eyes as a blindfold. “I want it to be a surprise. You like surprises, don’t you, Ben? I do. You’re my surprise. My favorite surprise.” His arms tightened around Ben’s waist, his lean body pressing into Ben’s back; a slight pressure on Ben’s shoulder and he felt Armitage’s breath against his neck. “Am I your favorite surprise, Ben?”

“Yes,” Ben said.

“This one is good, too,” Armitage breathed. “It’s so wicked you’ll hardly stand it.”

Ben’s breath hitched. A mounting excitement like the thrill of battle was bottling in his chest, compressing into his throat. “You know what I want. I want to see.”

Armitage slipped an arm in the crook of Ben’s own and led him on with a dancer’s graceful steps. Ben stumbled after him, hyper aware of his boots on the flagstones, the rough, uneven surface that made him trip and stutter, supported only by Armitage’s steady presence at his side.

“Stairs,” Armitage murmured, and held his arm more tightly. Slowly, tortuously, they made their way down the staircase and Ben wondered how Armitage could see in the dark without a candle to light the way. His heart hammered in his chest; he felt equal measures of fear and dark anticipation.

A creak of a door and Ben shivered, the smell of damp and rot heavy in his nostrils. The  chill  of the dungeon seeped into his bones instantly and he felt himself shudder, remembering the rot and hideous odor, the  choking  panic—

“Shh,  darling ,” Armitage said  warmly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re safe with me here. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Ben nodded, unable to speak over the rising lump in his throat. He pulled Armitage’s arm closer, ashamed to cling to him any more.

“Just a little further,” Armitage breathed, excitement bright as a torch. His slender fingers were digging into Ben’s arm with amazing strength. “Almost there, dearest. I’m so desperately keen for you to see. You’re the first, you know, I’m—well if I’m to be quite honest with you I’m—very interested to see what you’ll say.”

A clank and the sound of wood shifting on iron and then a wave of heat and light washed over Ben’s face. A torch. His palms were slippery with sweat; he felt his grip on Armitage’s hand slip. “Are we—“

“Yes, dearest,” Armitage said, and squeezed Ben’s hand. “Are you ready?”

Ben nodded, his heart in his throat and choking off his speech. Armitage pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and pulled apart the knot of his blindfold, slipping it gently off his face. Ben winced and blinked against the harsh light of the torch. Obscure shapes came into focus slowly and Ben could hear himself gasp as if disembodied from himself. Distantly he could feel Armitage tugging on his hand, his voice dulled in Ben’s ears.

“It’s...” Ben stammered. He felt suddenly dizzy, unsteady on his own feet. The words and images in his head and in his mouth were as wild as his darkest fantasies and made him retch. Armitage recoiled from his vomit as Ben reeled, awash in a deluge of terror, horror, and excitement.

“Well?” Armitage demanded, sounding uncharacteristically anxious. “It’s what? I’m not a mind-reader, Ben.”

Ben’s mind reached into darkness and retrieved no words. He felt as if he opened his mouth he might vomit again, his heart speeding in terror and some awful, wicked glee. “It’s horrible,” Ben gasped, and the smell, oh God, the smell! He doubled over in a state of what felt like apostate awe.

“Horrible,” Armitage repeated, almost blankly.

Ben could hardly summon the words to clarify before his body was racked with a second impulse to vomit. As he bent to retch again a sudden wave of dizziness claimed him and he felt himself tip and fall headlong into the dark.

 

 

He woke to light and the anxious faces of servants around him. A whiff of smelling salts made his head throb and his face burned instantly with embarrassment. He had fainted away like an overwrought elderly lady.

“Are you quite alright, my lord?” squeaked the boy missing his front teeth. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost!”

The other servants shushed him quickly, peering down at Ben with concern. “He saw,” whispered one. “ _ He knows, _ ” added another, just as quietly.

“I’m quite alright,” Ben said, waving their concern away with little to no success. “I’m still somewhat ill, is all.” He glanced through the knot of bodies around him and noticed with a drop of his stomach that Armitage was nowhere to be seen. “Where is Lord Hux?”

Two elderly servants exchanged anxious looks. “With respect, my lord, Lord Hux has issued a... _ suggestion  _ that you ought not to seek him out in the immediate future.”

Ben grit his teeth, easily able to imagine what the original message had ‘suggested.’ “Very well,” he said, pushing himself upright and finding himself laid out on a bench in the empty dining hall. Armitage was all but assured to be in his study. “I require no further assistance.”

A loud  _ BANG  _ sounded and Ben started, the servants scattering like startled birds. Armitage stormed towards him, hair and crimson cloak streaming behind him like a conqueror’s flag. Ben hastened to sit up, scrambling away as decorously as he could—

Blinding pain seared across his face and Ben’s shoulder ached as he hit the floor, the flagstones digging into his knees. He felt his face and his fingers came back with blood; he looked up for a knife in Armitage’s hand and realized he had slapped him, his ring cutting Ben’s skin.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Armitage demanded. “Wilting like a delicate flower?”

Ben opened his mouth to defend himself before Armitage’s boot into his stomach drove all the air from his lungs. He curled on himself, hands knotting into fists, cheek pressed into the frigid stone.

“I don’t understand you,” Armitage snapped. “You beg and threaten your way into my affairs and when I indulge your curiosity you swoon like a maiden. Do you know what that is, Ben?”

Ben shook his head no, heart pounding in his chest.

“It’s  _ pathetic _ ,” Armitage sneered.

Armitage’s sweet, excited whispers rang in his ears and through his anger Ben could see the wounded feelings, his delighted and anxious face falling as Ben pitched towards the dungeon floor. The incomprehensible den of death was his pride and joy, and Ben had insulted it. The man was insane, inhuman even, dangerously so. The depth of his depravity sickened him and thrilled him both.

“It’s wrong,” Ben gasped, his stomach lurching dangerously from the recollection and Armitage’s abuse. “It’s—it’s evil, can you not see—?”

“ ‘It’s wrong, it’s wrong,’ “ Armitage sang in a sickly, mocking tone. “Poor little baby Ben, doesn’t want to get his ickle hands dirty. Except you already have, you disgusting creature. You’ve slaughtered children and had your way with a corpse and you have the gall to call  _ me  _ wicked. Well, I am wicked. But have no fear that your soul is every bit as filthy as mine.”

“It’s not,” Ben retorted, but the words rang hollow. “My soul may be blackened by sin but it is a devil’s work. Yours is of your own making.”

“How dreadfully convenient,” Armitage whispered, and his lips curled upwards with trite amusement. “But you’re right, I do blacken my soul, as you say. And I don’t give a damn about it. I love every moment of it, baby Ben, and so would you if you were to indulge your true nature even momentarily. Have I told you how I do it? You only got such a shortened tour, after all. I daresay I’ve perfected the process.”

Ben swallowed. Every instinct screamed for him to ignore the temptation, the sly, burning curiosity buried within him, his veneer of virtue. But Armitage was so irresistible, so imperious, Ben couldn’t bring himself to insist he stop. Make him stop.

“Those men that threw you in the dungeon,” Armitage began as he knelt to Ben’s level, his voice a slithering, sensuous thing. “They’re vicious, dangerous men. They catch and carry my poor little peasants to the dungeon.”

Armitage smiled, sweetly as if at a joke Ben had made, and took Ben’s jaw and forced Ben to face him, so that he could not look away. “Then the quaking victims are brought to the cell where you were kept during your little stay. Sometimes they’re very weak and expire right away, and some of them get, ah,  _ frisky _ and start killing the others. That’s always a delight,” he added. “I think you would enjoy that, you little beast. Don’t give me those soulful eyes, you’ve said so yourself that you’ve lopped off the feet of children. I mean, that’s terribly exciting—how they must have screamed!—but you can’t deny that’s deviously wicked of you.”

Ben squeezed his eyes shut and felt  hot tears rolling down his face. He bit back a whimper; there was a physical void in his chest, an aching emptiness. He couldn’t deny that it was true any more than he could deny that Armitage’s mere presence bred an insatiable urge to wrestle him to the floor and have his way with him. Even his scent alone was intoxicating, thick and sweet, dizzying as his gaze when he stared at Ben as if he were the only man in the world who mattered anything to him.

“ _ And then, _ ” Armitage whispered, now so close that Ben could feel his  warm breath fluttering on his cheek, “I do all sorts of horrible things to them. Little Mitaka’s leg was nothing. Your sweet but admirable attempt to murder me was but lover’s play.”

Ben shook, whether from terror or some wicked, utterly depraved arousal, he couldn’t tell. He clung to Armitage’s thin shoulder and twined his fingers in Armitage’s silky hair as fresh tears welled in his eyes, stinging like pinpricks. In the light of the dining hall’s candles Armitage was haloed angelically like whatever creature of light the shepherds cowered from in fear.

Armitage’s knee dug between his legs and Ben whimpered, his hips jerking helplessly against the stimulation. “See,” Armitage sneered. “Rutting against my leg like an animal.” He tore free from Ben’s desperate embrace and stood, allowing Ben to scramble shakily to his hands and knees.

“I’m sorry,” Ben whispered, and he meant it so utterly, so hopelessly. “I’m sorry, don’t go.”

Armitage tossed something at his feet and Ben recoiled as if from a blow. A worn, filthy hound’s collar lay on the flagstones.

“Now put it on.” Armitage said coldly.

For a long, hard moment Ben tried to refuse. Then he picked up the thick, wide leather collar with trembling hands and, wincing at its crooked tines, wrapped it around his neck and fumbled to buckle it in place. After a moment Armitage yanked it tight and gave it a pull to make sure it was secured, the metal tines pressing into his chin.

“Well, take off your clothes,” Armitage ordered, with a faint sneer. “Animals hardly wear breeches and boots, do they?”

Ben scowled furiously, feeling his face burn with humiliation. Wasn’t it enough that he knelt on the floor, tied like a beast of burden?

Armitage’s full lips pulled down with a pout. “Don’t be such a recalcitrant little beast, you’ve already disappointed me gravely once for today. I know you need release already, don’t you? You certainly won’t get it from me unless you do as I say.”

As if to prove his point, Ben’s cock gave a dizzying throb that threatened to reduce him even further to the floor. He whined aloud through his teeth, furious with Armitage and furious with himself. Then with a snarl he kicked off his boots, unbuttoning his breeches and doublet and kicking and pulling them off along with his tunic and shirt, baring himself with short, brusque movements. He reached to pull his wolf coat off his shoulders—

“Ah ah ah,” Armitage said, sounding infuriatingly pleased with himself. “A big beast like you needs some fur, don’t you think?”

Ben refused to meet his gaze and said nothing, already shivering despite his coat. The flagstones were like ice on his hands and knees and his cock was growing heavy between his thighs, shamefully bare. Armitage ruffled the top of his hair fondly, then produced a short rope from his coat and tied it as a leash. Before Ben could protest he seized a napkin off the dining table and shoved it roughly in his mouth, nearly making him gag.

“There,” Armitage beamed, stepping back to admire his own handiwork. “Big proud beast like you, all leashed and muzzled. Don’t growl at me, I know you’re enjoying it. The silly horse cock between your legs is telling me that. You can’t tell me it standing at such impressive attention is just because of the cold.”

Ben blinked back more pinpricks of tears and tried his best to scowl. His want had become singular and acute and his stiffening cock was becoming almost painful. The cloth in his throat and mouth and the collar combined was making it very difficult to breathe and he felt deliriously lightheaded. 

“Come,” Armitage said, and gave Ben’s leash a sharp, painful tug. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Ben pushed himself gratefully off his knees only to be shoved brutally down again, as one might a rambunctious animal. He whimpered as his knees and palms hit the stone and strained to lift his head enough to relieve the pressure on his throat.

“Down, boy,” Armitage ordered, his voice silky soft. “Rutting on my leg and jumping all over me in the same day, you filthy creature. I have half a mind to discipline you—but of course you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I certainly won’t let myself anywhere near your rabid jaws if you don’t behave.”

Ben nodded quickly and bowed his head with gratitude when Armitage eased the pressure off the hound’s collar. Armitage twitched the rope against Ben’s shoulder and strode forwards and Ben crawled after him, immediately short of breath again as the leather dug into his neck. His hands and knees smarted terribly and Ben could feel himself burning all over with shame. His coat dragged on the ground and to his acute misery he could feel it slipping to one side to bare even more of him, exposing his  still-warm skin to the  frigid  air of the castle. The clipped sounds of Armitage’s boots on the flagstones rang in his ears, compounding his wretchedness.

Armitage pushed the dining hall’s doors open and yanked Ben through, all but dragging him in his wake as Ben scrambled to keep up. They entered the atrium with little fanfare, Ben’s tortured breathing loud in his ears, and he could feel the servants’ stares on him as they froze in their places. His cock bobbed and slapped against his thighs as he crawled painfully across the floor.

Armitage pulled him towards the grand staircase and Ben scrabbled helplessly on the steps, struggling to crowd his knees onto each level. Armitage showed no signs of slowing or mercy and Ben winced as he banged his shins and arms on the stone overhang. As soon as they were to the top Armitage pulled him down the labyrinthine corridors leading towards—Ben’s heart skipped a beat—his chambers.

Ben bore the stares of the servants with gritted teeth and cursed Armitage silently, imagining all kinds of brutal pleasures he could extract from him. The thoughts were tossed from his mind as Armitage gave the rope a sharp yank, pulling Ben to heel and making him choke.

Armitage slipped a key into the lock, apparently untroubled as Ben whined and spluttered his discomfort. “Heel, boy,” he said, imperious, then pushed the door open and flicked at Ben’s leash, leading him inside. Ben followed obediently, wincing at the pain in his abused knees. The door closed with a click and Armitage bent down and took Ben’s cheeks in his palms, gazing down hard into Ben’s eyes.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Ben?” he cooed in the indulgent tones one reserved for a particularly well-behaved animal. “Big, strong guard dog, running and barking to my rescue. That was very touching, you know.” He ruffled Ben’s hair and Ben grit his teeth, pressing down on a snarl.

“No teeth now,” Armitage warned, and pressed a thumb between his lips, down the sides of his teeth and pulling on the skin of his cheek. The intrusion felt unnatural, beastly, as if Ben were a donkey Armitage was checking for health. Yet the leash was taut in Armitage’s other hand and already exerted a great pressure on his throat, and the napkin in his mouth kept him from biting, so Ben remained still and bore it.

“Only docile dogs are allowed on the furniture, that’s how it works.”

He leaned in so close Ben could feel his breath tickle his cheek, breathe in his scent. The sensation made his mouth water and his cock strain dizzyingly, overwhelmed. Ben blinked his watering eyes and swallowed with difficulty, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Do you want up on the bed with me, Ben?”

The leash was too taut for Ben to reply but he pushed his face clumsily forwards, slamming his nose and forehead into Armitage’s cheek with some force. The impact was dizzying and Ben moaned at a sudden pain in his lip.

Armitage stood in a fluid motion and gazed downwards, licking at the blood on his teeth. “Don’t fret,  darling . Being a guard dog isn’t all you’re good for.” His boot jutted between Ben’s legs and he gasped, a blunt pain and perverse pleasure jolting up his spine. “There’s also the matter of this big, clumsy thing.”

Ben groaned as Armitage’s boot kneaded between his legs, inflamed and burning with abject shame.

Then Armitage withdrew, looking smugly self-satisfied. Ben’s gaze locked on his hand as it went to the broach at his throat, unpinning it and working the miniscule buttons of his doublet open down his chest. Ben’s breath caught in his chest as he started on his shirtsleeves, baring the smooth, creamy skin of his chest. His collarbones appeared first, thin and delicate, and Ben thought longingly of breaking them, teasing them apart. Then his chest—a flash of pink nipple that ground Ben’s thoughts to a halt—then arched ribs, narrow and beautiful.

He shrugged off his shirtsleeves and doublet and Ben growled helplessly in his throat as he undid the buttons of his breeches.

“Oh, you like that?” Armitage asked with a wicked smile. “Growl and whine more for me, Ben. I do so love your cries. You’re just a wild, desperate animal, aren’t you?”

Ben snarled and swore but through the cloth it came out as a guttural sound. Armitage gave the laugh of a gleeful child and brushed his hair over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re precious. Whining for me with those puppy’s eyes. So sweet.”

He gave the rope a sudden yank and Ben skittered across the rug, scrambling up onto the bed to relieve the crushing pressure on his neck. Armitage pounced and wrapped his long legs around Ben’s waist, sitting on Ben’s stomach, the rope going slack. Ben gasped in air gratefully only to feel a tug moments later as Armitage fastened the rope around the bedpost.

“Poor big, dumb, dog, all trussed up,” Armitage said, and pushed down his bottom lip. “If I unmuzzle you now, will you promise not to bite?”

Ben made a noise that was truly a growl and reached for him with his hands, bucking his hips in a wild effort to dislodge him, to get Armitage beneath him so he could take—

The world shifted suddenly and Ben crashed down to the floor with a muffled shout. Armitage spilled gracelessly onto his back and Ben lurched for him, crying out in frustration and surprised pain as the collar jerked him back.

Armitage kicked off his boots and wriggled quickly out of his breeches and underclothes, tearing at Ben as Ben tore at him, tearing the cloth from Ben’s mouth and moaning deeply as Ben sank his teeth into his slender shoulder. Ben tasted blood and clawed at Armitage’s back, savoring the vibrations of Armitage’s groans against his lips, resonating in his own chest.

Armitage shoved him down with brutal force and Ben grunted as his skull connected with the oaken bed. Armitage grinned, still bloody, and straddled Ben’s hips, pressing teasingly against Ben’s cock as he raked sharp nails down Ben’s chest.

“Beg for me, Ben,” he ordered, his voice rough as if he were the one being choked. “Beg for me, whine for me, you brute. Tell me how much you want me around your beastly cock, beg for it.”

“Please,” Ben gasped, hoarsely, grasping desperately for Armitage’s waist and clawing furrows into his soft thighs and bucking his hips to grind his straining cock into Armitage’s hip. “Fuck you, please, please—I want—how you feel—“

“Keep going,” Armitage gasped, groping around clumsily for the jar of animal fats and ripping off the cover. He grabbed Ben’s hand and smeared the fat onto his fingers, lifting his hips and guiding Ben’s hand. Ben dug his fingers into the slight pucker and Armitage cried out, knocking his hand away.

“Gentle, you bastard,” Armitage snarled. “Or I’ll have your cock as sausage.”

He gripped Ben’s hand in a taloned grip and allowed him to push a single slicked finger against his entrance, hissing and gritting his teeth as Ben pushed into him. Ben’s mouth fell open in a moan, shocked at the warmth and tight drag of Armitage’s body around his finger. His one fumbling experience with a whore had been with no preparation, wet and slick unlike the hot compression tightening around his hand.

Ben pressed a second against him and Armitage pushed it away, imperious as ever despite the way his body trembled. Ben obediently let him guide his hand, rancour dulled by wonder. He could scarcely imagine how Armitage would feel around his cock.

“More,” Armitage gasped, and groaned as Ben pushed a second finger into him. His lips were red and slicked with spit; he looked somewhere between pain and pleasure, teeth bared in anticipation.

With startling quickness Armitage’s body loosened around him, his pained gasps turning into softer noises of pleasure. Ben startled as Armitage’s hand curled around his cock, slicking it with fat and sending shivers down Ben’s spine.

“Don’t move,” Armitage ordered, digging his fingers threateningly into Ben’s chest, then lifted his hips and eased them down.

Ben gasped. Stars winked before his eyes; he squeezed them shut as his mind went white, all sensation muted but for the pure, perfect friction around his cock. His back arched and he pulled forward to grasp Armitage’s waist, choking off his own breath, doubling his ecstasy. Distantly he could hear the most deep, decadent moans that reasonably had to come from Armitage or himself; he realized with some surprise that the sounds were theirs combined.

“Ben,” Armitage gasped and Ben keened as Armitage’s nails raked over his chest and arms. He clawed at Armitage’s thighs and reveled in his softness, their bodies slicked with sweat, twined and clashing. Ben groaned his assent and bucked his hips and Armitage gave a soft cry, head thrown back and spine arched in a tall, beautiful arch, his ribs like the proud lofts of a church—

White-hot ecstasy seared through Ben and he felt himself go limp, vision blacking. Moments later sensation drifted back as air flooded his lungs, nimble fingers loosening the leather around his neck.

“That was wonderful, Ben,” Armitage breathed, his narrow chest rising and falling rather rapidly. His  warm , hard cheek was very pink, pressed into Ben’s chest, plush lips bright and red. His palm pressed into Ben’s bleeding chest, massaging his muscles, idly rubbing his scars through his sweat. “You were very, very good,  darling , thank you.”

Heat and warmth bloomed in Ben’s chest and he felt his lungs tremor in his chest. Tears pricked his eyes again and he pressed his lips together,  warmth melting away the icy burning in his chest. Armitage’s hair and face were wet with sweat and come and he looked positively destroyed and beautiful; Ben longed to curl his arms tight around his smaller body and take him, again and again. He imagined Armitage’s moans of delight, their shared joy, the  fiery heat between their bodies that seared between them now. He tangled his fingers in Armitage’s damp and curling hair and hesitantly stroked his back, where Ben had clawed bloody furrows into his skin.

Armitage hummed in pleasure and squeezed his arms more tightly around Ben’s chest. “Let’s leave for London, Ben,” he said suddenly. “There are such terribly exciting things to see there, and your boots need replacing. And there are so many things I want to show you.”

Ben’s heart thrilled in his chest, simultaneously fearful and excited. London. So many people, sights, smells, sounds. A nightmare of stimuli, but a dream of sensuality.

“Don’t look so wonderstruck,” Armitage whispered, and pressed his lips to Ben’s, teasing his tongue against Ben’s and making his whole body shiver. When he pulled away he continued, “It’s just a silly little town. You’ll like it there, I promise. Do you want to go?”

Ben nodded . He chanced slipping his hand curiously to Armitage’s thigh and startled to feel his own come dribbling down his leg.

Armitage gave an impish grin. “Do you like that, Ben?”

Ben moaned weakly in assent as Armitage kissed him again, sliding his sweat-slicked body against Ben’s slowly and pressing his hips into Ben’s thigh with a soft sigh. Ben grabbed his waist and felt his breath catch as Armitage’s fingers slipped under the hound’s collar and pulled at it with a breathy moan, as if Ben’s cock were still inside him.

Eventually Armitage slowed, then tired and slumped against Ben’s chest, pliable and sleepy, curling against him like a cat.

 

 

“Ben. Ben! Wake up.”

A spark of pain; Ben clutched at his face where Armitage had slapped him.

“We must leave for London if we wish to arrive at a reasonable time,” Armitage said, rather petulantly. He looked fresh and clean and neat and nothing like the sweat-soaked mess of the previous evening.

Ben groaned and felt around for his clothes, and, feeling none, groaned again. “Where are my things? I need to get dressed.”

“Absolutely not,” Armitage snapped, looking outraged. “If you think you’re going to even  _ touch  _ me again you better wash the filth off your reeking body,  _ and  _ wash your hair as well as that bludgeoning object you call a cock.”

Ben flushed and felt his stomach roil at the mention of his cock, which flopped shamefully in his lap. Armitage’s lips curled upwards as Ben hurriedly pulled the sumptuous covers on the floor over his lap to hide his nakedness.

“Don’t get all modest now, Ben, darling ,” Armitage sneered, giving Ben’s cheek a sharp pat that stung almost like a slap. “A big handsome hound like you shouldn’t cover up.”

One slim hand slipped nimbly under the covers to pinch the inside of Ben’s thigh; he yelped as if burned, covering his face with his hands and burying his face in Armitage’s pillows, to Armitage’s great amusement. He leapt up on the bed and pressed  wet  kisses into Ben’s back in between reedy peels of laughter.

A flash of anger drove Ben’s elbow back in a vicious swing and he felt something crack; he twisted around to see Armitage clutching his nose, crimson running down his mouth and chin.

“I’m—I’m sorry—“ Ben stammered, his pulse fluttering. He scrambled back but Armitage smiled brightly and pressed a  hot , bloody kiss to his lips. Ben licked the blood out of his mouth, hungrily, and Armitage laughed into his mouth.

“Don’t apologize,” Armitage said brightly, and tightened his legs around Ben’s waist. “Now to the bath with you. You still smell of dog.”

 

 

By that evening, they still had not left. Armitage locked himself into the audience hall with a man with a rough timbre that Ben never managed to get a look at, but he could hear their raised voices. Nursing wounded feelings, he occupied himself with a letter to Lady Organa, telling her of the English weather, the countryside, the English peasantry. Yet every time he tried to mention Lord Hux he faltered. He struggled to find the words, to even know what he sought to say. Eventually, late at night, he gave in and simply lay in bed, doing nothing.

Idleness, as always, brewed the devil.

It started as a curiosity. His throat and body ached terribly—it wasn’t as if he could forget. The snatches he’d caught before collapsing flashed before him, intrusive and unstoppable, until he clutched at the bedposts and wished someone would bind him in place.

That curiosity grew into an itch, powerful and unscratched. Then a murmur, an urge, until Ben lay shaking on the bed, begging the Lord for mercy, any release from his wickedness.

The Lord did not answer him.

Late, late that night Ben crept through the hall, hyper aware of the soft whispers of his feet on the stone. Rain pounded on the glass of the windows and thunder rolled grimly in the distance, like a growled threat. He clutched the dim candle closer to his chest, senses alert for even the smallest sound. A mouse skittered past and he nearly leapt a foot back.

The horrible darkness called to him, and Ben descended into it, stumbling down the winding, torturous steps. The stone was ice cold  on his bare feet and he already felt himself shivering through his coat. He drew it more tightly around his shoulders and kept on, peering as far as he could through the inky dark, heart pounding.

The further down he went the more he could smell it: a wet, awful sort of smell, like a barn after the slaughter. The stench filled his nostrils, rancid and horrible; Ben’s head throbbed painfully and he felt himself dizzy. He steeled himself, leaning on the stairwell for support, then pressed onward.

At last he came to the door. Already Ben knew it was locked, but he tried it anyways. The door did not budge. He pulled his knife from the belt of his breeches and knelt down on the freezing , damp floor and held the candle to the handle.

No relation of Lady Organa’s would be thwarted by a simple lock. She had made sure of it.

Ben pushed the tip of the knife into the keyhole, pressing his ear to the door and holding his breath to hear the tiny clicks of the tumblers as he gently moved the blade. After a few frustrating minutes they all clicked into place; Ben twisted the handle and slipped inside, closing the door and locking it behind him.

The smell instantly became overpowering, suffocating like a physical thing. Ben squeezed his eyes shut at the ache of it and felt his eyes water, his stomach roiling. Yet he persisted, staggering over to the nearest rack and leaning heavily on the sturdy wood frame, fighting the powerful urge to vomit.

At last, the horror of the smell abated, and Ben found himself able to breathe through his mouth without trouble. He drew back his hand from the rack and found it slicked with something dark. He thought of himself on such a rack, Armitage’s knife trailing tender cuts over his thighs like lovers’ touches.

He looked away from the rack and scrubbed his hand on the  frigid stone of the nearest wall, then stepped tentatively through a scattered field of what appeared to be bear traps until he found the large cage where he’d been kept by the riders. The terror of those endless nights rose in his chest and Ben hurried on.

The looming shapes he’d seen when he’d first been there were now illuminated amongst the gloom and Ben stared at them all in wonderment. Some of the contraptions were undoubtedly ancient and defunct as Armitage claimed, but Ben did not see them as being any less deadly for it. Some of them not even his wicked mind could devise a function for, so utterly beyond even his own depravity. He shuddered imagining others in use, spikes to poke out eyes or crush bone or tear into flesh, pierce skulls and rip apart bodies until all that was left was meat.

He shuddered to think how he had passed this place on his way to see a cache of forgotten relics, that Armitage kept this shrine to death and horror next to the room where he stored his contempt for God.

Ben’s fingers found the golden rosary Armitage had given him, already worn down from where his fingers had worried it in the past. Then he pressed on, further into the darkness.

Ben heard a croak and his hand dropped immediately to his knife. Armitage had been furious at his failure here and would not take kindly to his trespassing. But no matter where he brandished the candle he saw only brick and wood and metal, not a soul in sight. Ben crept further into the room, heart shuddering in his chest, eyes straining to pierce the gloom—

He gasped.

Bodies littered the room. The stench was overpowering now, rotting meat and human despair. It was a smell Ben knew intimately, a smell that at times suffused his very soul. It was at once incomprehensible and familiar, repulsive and intriguing, profoundly dualistic in a way that made his mind whirl. Ren thrilled within him, pushing at the walls of Ben’s very mind while he himself recoiled; he stumbled back at the same time he reached out an arm, thrust forth his candle to see more.

The croak sounded again and realization dawned on Ben accompanied by growing horror. One or more of the bodies, the bloated, rotting corpses, was  _ alive. _

Ben crept forward, drawn by some morbid, awful curiosity, and a prayer fell from his lips in Spanish. Up close he could see that at least one was still breathing, a pitiful, rattling rasp of air between hardly human lips. With trembling hands Ben reached out to touch the mouth broken and scabbed from dehydration, rough on the tips of his fingers. Yet that hot trickle of air brushed over his skin.

Ben’s hands traveled down to a cut oozing blood, the bound stump of an arm. The meat felt tough and hard to the touch, icy on his skin. The stomach was bloated and soft, the limbs shriveled, one wrist superfluously chained to a thick ring in the center of the room.

And yet through this veneer of horror Ben could see the beauty, the purity of suffering. There was a piousness, a penance to this. The marbling rot of the skin shone like a painter’s impression of shade, the myriad of wounds and oozing blood alluring as the fascinating stump of flesh and bone. Even the smell, the awful smell, spoke so powerfully to the putrid condition of the human soul. The whole room was the depraved wickedness of the human soul laid bare, each faceless corpse sculpted into an expression of their sins, their inherent evil nature.

Human beings were all like himself and Armitage, Ben knew, deep down at the base. Most men expressed it differently—beat their wives, cheated their neighbors, hurt their children. He and Armitage had power, the power to express their wickedness, to wield it exactly as they pleased.

Quite simply, the dungeon, beneath the outward horror, was beautiful. A Biblical scene, Ben thought—the strewn corpses on the battlefields, the ravages of plagues and curses and doom, a harbinger of the day of reckoning.

Ben stood, glancing about him in awe, the scales newly fallen from his eyes, and saw. So rapturous was his realization that he did not notice the soft glow of lamplight in the corner until it approached.

Ben’s eyes met Armitage’s and understanding flowed between them like water or wine. Armitage settled by him, his  gloved  fingers wrapping around Ben’s hand. Together they took in the beauty surrounding them.

Ben thought to kiss him but the meeting of mouths seemed indecent in such a place, like doing the same in a house of God. So he pined in silence, warmed only by Armitage’s hand in Ben’s own and his head on Ben’s shoulder.

“We must rest,” Armitage said at last, not moving and speaking almost at a whisper. “We leave tomorrow morning for London.”

When Ben did not reply, he said, “But of course you may stay a little longer.” His lips, soft as rose petals, whispered against Ben’s cheek, “Goodnight, Ben, dearest.”

 

 

Armitage dozed in Ben’s lap almost the entire coach ride, stretching indolently at intervals and blinking dazedly at the sun. Ben himself had little to distract him so he slept as well, albeit fitfully and briefly. The air was crisp and cool but the sun shone strongly and he felt more fit and healthful merely breathing it in. By the time they arrived almost two days had passed and Armitage seemed absolutely none the worse for wear.

“You’re going to love London,” he told Ben as he peered thoughtfully out of the hurtling coach at the darkened streets. “It’s a magical place, you’ll see.”

He gave Ben a pinched, pink-cheeked smile and his eyes glimmered. “Shall we take a room at an inn or do you want to take an early start? I’ve so much to show you.” Armitage’s hand ghosted Ben’s sleeve and Ben shivered responsively, senses lit up by the  cold and excitement of the night.

“I don’t need rest,” Ben said, and did not pull away when Armitage’s fingers laced with his own. His heart thrilled in his chest; he felt capable of taking on all of England, a pack of wild beasts.

Armitage smiled with a radiance that pierced Ben’s chest directly through his heart and he felt himself swallow with difficulty. “Unfortunately you’re not dressed well for what I have in mind. We’ll have some new clothes made tomorrow and then, I promise.” He pressed a quick kiss to Ben’s lips and Ben’s heart rate nearly doubled. “I have some alternative ideas for night-time carousing.”

Within moments of entering the sumptuous inn bedroom Armitage was wrestling him out of his jerkin and Ben was pressing him to the heavy wooden bed, Armitage’s sweet, spicy scent thick and heady. Ben breathed him in, tasting every part of him he could reach under Armitage’s clothes, delighting in his low moans and how his body molded to Ben’s embrace, pliant and soft.

Ben couldn’t restrain himself and moaned embarrassingly into Armitage’s mouth, seizing his jaw and the back of his slim neck to pull him even closer. Ben bit bruises into the tender skin below Armitage’s jaw and he could feel himself getting dizzy with it, the impossible proximity that shouldn’t have been.

Slender legs clenched around Ben’s waist and hips rolled against Ben’s own, slow and sensuous, pressing into him in an erratic rhythm that made it impossible to pull away and made Ben’s breath shorten. Armitage twined his arms around Ben’s shoulders and gave a shuddering sigh as more bruises bloomed on his skin.

Ben pushed his hips into Armitage’s sharp ones and tangled his fingers in Armitage’s silken hair, soft and beautiful, fanned around his head like a golden halo. The nape of his neck was  warm and seeped heat  into Ben’s hands; Armitage’s lips pressed into his and his tongue teased Ben’s bottom lip.

Ben did not protest as Armitage’s hands slipped Ben’s shirt off his shoulders, sliding down Ben’s back and sending a thrill down his spine to curl around his swelling cock, kneading him teasingly. Ben gasped and groaned in the back of his throat, his knees weakening around the blooms of pleasure spreading through his body.

_ Wrong. Wrong, it was all wrong, he was wicked and evil— _ he could already feel the fires of hell licking at his bones.

Ben whimpered and could not pull away, trembling in terror and ecstasy as Armitage’s hand worked open his breeches and curled around him, pulling and stroking him and kissing his mouth with such a sweet passion Ben had never felt. Ben trembled and shook, the waves of  heat  and pleasure rising up his back the precursors of hell, Armitage’s teeth grazing gently on his lips a harbinger of the claws of demons that would rip into his flesh.

Ben sank down shaking to the mattress and Armitage curled around him, kissing his chest and pressing a leg between his thighs as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through Ben’s wicked flesh. Teeth ran shiveringly over his collarbone and Ben shuddered, so close—

Armitage gave a final pull and Ben’s hips jerked in his grasp, his breath stuttering as mind-numbing pleasure washed through him. He trembled in the afterglow, feeling feverish and wretched and sated all at once.

“Ben?” Armitage probed, his voice sweet and soft like an angel’s. “Ben, is something wrong?”

Ben felt a tug at his gut like the impulse to vomit. “It’s...it’s wrong,” he said, through shaking breaths. “It’s wrong, you know it as well as I, it’s wicked and evil and—God will punish us.”

Armitage frowned, his myriad freckles and white lashes and  pale jade eyes so wickedly, wickedly beautiful. “Oh, Ben.”

“You can have it,” Ben said quickly, face heating shamefully and on the verge of tears. He pulled away as gently as he could and tried to fumble his sticky, shameful cock back into his breeches. He thought wildly of penance—he didn’t have his scourge but he could break off a piece of wood— “The bed, I mean, I’ll sleep on the floor, I’ll—I’ll get another room, I’ll—“

Armitage withdrew his proximity but his hand curled around Ben’s wrist to keep him from leaving. “You shouldn’t be alone,” he said, and there was a resoluteness in his tone that underlay the softness.

Ben tore his wrist from Armitage’s grasp, scrambling off the bed and to his feet, reeling from dizziness as he attempted to right his clothes. He bit his lip to keep the rising terror and panic bubbling in his chest at bay and longed for the fiery lash of the scourge.

“You’ve barely eaten,” Armitage said firmly. He lay a hand imperiously on Ben’s arm. “Stay here and I’ll get you something to eat. Give me your word you won’t bring yourself harm.”

Ben muttered a halfhearted affirmative.

“Your word, Ben,” Armitage said, more insistently. His face was flushed and his neck and chest were already pinking with bruises; Ben felt faint at the very sight of him.

“You have my word,” Ben mumbled, and did not meet his eyes.

When Armitage returned with a few morsels of meat and a good chunk of bread and cheese, Ben’s terror had numbed to a dull, buzzing throb, not unlike the pain in his hand where he’d driven it into the stone wall.

“Sit,” Armitage commanded sternly, and when Ben didn’t comply he took him by the arm and guided him to the chairs by the fire and pushed him into one, then set the food on the rickety table between them and folded his hands in his lap.

“Go on,” he said, and gestured to the chicken on the platter. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

The truth was Ben didn’t think he could possibly stomach even water, but Armitage didn’t look like he was going to give it up. Weighing the possibility that Armitage could have procured and cooked human flesh this quickly, Ben selected a small piece of cheese and put it in his mouth, chewing halfheartedly. Armitage’s shirt had slipped off his thin shoulders and a pink nipple peaked from over where the collar now lay; his hair was tangled and his lips kissed-red. Their sin was so obvious Ben could hardly stomach to look at him.

Armitage sighed and shifted in his chair. “Talk, then,” he said. “I know you’re aching to, anyway.”

Ben fixed his eyes stubbornly on the floor and said nothing.

A flicker of anger passed through Armitage’s eyes and for a moment Ben’s instinct told him Armitage might hit him.

“All right, then,” Armitage said, a bit  cooly. “I will. You’re a maddening creature, Ben. You vacillate between being forward and shrinking back. You were fine to have me the other day but now you sulk like a child after I touch you, with no indication beforehand whether your fine moral compass will take exception to it or not.”

Ben wanted to say something, defend himself, but he couldn’t think of a single thing in his rotten soul worth defending, so he said nothing. There was nothing he could say, no words he could force his tongue to form. He wanted nothing more for Armitage to leave him in disgust or beat him in anger.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Armitage said, neither in anger nor dismissal. “Eat if you like. And the bed is yours as well if you so please.”

With that he stood and went behind the rickety folding divider to undress, then slipped under the bed’s covers and blew out the bedside candle, leaving Ben alone by the fire. Ben poked at the chicken until the fire had waned to weak embers, then threw the food into the fire and watched as the fat melted and the flesh shriveled in the emboldened flames.

Then he went to the bed and, in darkness, pulled off his breeches and crawled under the blankets, trying not to notice how the moonlight shone on Armitage’s bare skin.

 

 

Ben woke the next morning to a general feeling of  warmth and overall wellbeing. Sunlight streamed in from the windows and the fire already roared merrily in the hearth.

Armitage was curled in Ben’s arms, breathing slowly.

Panic flared in Ben’s chest and, as if sensing his distress, Armitage’s eyes flicked open. He recoiled and slipped out of bed, dressing quickly and making haste for the door.

Ben felt a sting of rejection followed swiftly by relief—he would have no anger nor disapproval to contend with in the immediate future. He was blissfully alone, surrounded by a foreign city that buzzed with sound and energy from the window, shouts and chatter and the clipped sounds of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones and the occasional whinny. He felt free, almost, as if the great burden of the gloomy, isolated Hux castle had been lifted.

It occurred to him that he could leave and find passage back to Spain. A merchant ship would likely take him on for hire for the journey. He could leave now, with nothing but the clothes on his back, and never see Armitage or his own reflected wickedness ever again. He would see Lady Organa, little Rey, his uncle, embrace them all again. He would help his mother raise little Rey and he wouldn’t touch another villager again. The thought alone brought a swell of melancholy and joy to his heart.

The truth of it was he knew it would never be. The demon Ren’s wickedness was now his own, in his own mind, and they were forever inseparable. He could never truly be free, never truly be with the family he loved, not until they knew the demon inside him that would destroy them all. His mother, sister, and uncle could never love a man who had done what Ben had done. No Godly Christian ever could.

Ben thought of Armitage in the indent in his pillow where his head had laid during the night, thought of how it would feel to reach out and touch the bare, smooth, moonlit shoulder, slide his hand over the slim chest and curl his arms around the slender body. He thought of the perverse, wicked pleasure of the hound’s collar around his neck, their sweaty bodies intertwined in unholy union.

Armitage knew Ben for what monstrosity lay within, and was not repulsed but enthralled.

Ben lay in luxurious laziness for a few moments more, then stretched and disentangled himself from the covers, fetching his clothes from the floor and trying in vain to rub the more visible evidence of the last evening’s tryst from his breeches. At last he was somewhat satisfied, the stain rubbed to dried, filthy flakes in the worn fabric.

Then he dressed, pulling on his filthy breeches, broken boots and fraying belt and torn jerkin and tried to ruffle his hair into some semblance of order. Only his wolf coat lent him any measure of propriety, albeit wild and uncouth. He glared at his reflection in the dingy mirror and tried not to feel ridiculous in rich, beautiful London, in the company of a rich, beautiful companion.

The door burst open and the aforementioned rich, beautiful companion bounded through the door, beaming as if their encounter the last night—and that morning—had not occurred.

“Good, you’re awake,” Armitage said, a bit breathlessly. He peeled off a scarf from around his neck and threw it around Ben’s, fussing over his hair and fixing his collar. “I’ve just had word—well, you’ll see, why ruin the surprise? You must come now, we can dine later—I can hardly wait to show you.”

Ben knew better than to bother asking for clarification, Armitage’s excitement infectious. He allowed himself to be bundled into the coach with Armitage clinging happily to his hand the entire ride. Once the coach came to a stop Armitage flung the door open without waiting for the driver and tugged Ben out after him, leaping up impressive white steps and into a comely storefront. As Ben wondered at the deluge of dolls and toys and wrought finery, all with brilliant colors and imported from all the corners of the world, Armitage pulled him impatiently past the beautiful displays and up a set of stairs.

“Ah, Lord Armitage, Lord Organa,” greeted a strangely familiar voice. Ben turned to recognize the familiar face of  _ Monsieur _ Armadi, the tailor. “Your orders have been carried out to the last stitch. All that remains are the final fitting and last adjustments.”

Armitage gave a slim, approving smile. “My thanks, Monsieur. Ben, what do you think?”

Ben stared in awe at the assortment of finery. Cloaks, doublets, boots, gloves, shirtsleeves, tunics, jerkins, all in rich colors and designs, a small fortune’s worth for the materials alone. Even to his untrained eye the craftsmanship was breathtaking.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, with complete honesty. “You’ll wear them all perfectly, I’m sure.”

Armitage frowned. “Don’t be silly, Ben. I’ve plenty of clothes. These are for you.”

Ben blinked. Shock permeated his mind before he managed to stammer out, “I can’t possibly.”

Armitage’s hand squeezed his, just a little. “Don’t be bashful,” he said. “I had them made for you. Don’t feel badly, it pleased me greatly to have them made. Now go, let Monsieur Armadi do his work.”

Feeling rather light-headed, and not a small bit overwhelmed, Ben allowed himself to be led by Armadi’s assistants to a half-moon of mirrors. Quickly they removed his coat and clothes and boots, providing him with fine new underclothes to replace his old ones behind the folding divider. The new ones were soft and thin and fit him so comfortably Ben could hardly see why he should bother with clothes at all.

Once he emerged, a bit pink from the exposure, the assistants began to layer him with shirtsleeves and black breeches in the stiff, unbloomed Spanish style, that fit him perhaps a bit too snugly. When he raised this concern Armitage quickly waved his comments away, assuring Ben that the fit was just right.

Next came a black doublet made of a velvety material, slashed in the sleeves that narrowed to be tight around his forearms, allowing the ornate black lace of his wrist sleeves to trail freely. It was very tight around his chest and waist but the slit sleeves allowed him an excellent range of movement, and the line of small buttons down his chest were, by his own estimation, rather alluring. The neck of the doublet was high and nearly reached his jaw, fastened with more buttons, and the restraint to his throat reminded him rather pleasantly of the hound’s collar.

The points fastening the breeches to the doublet were decorated with silver aglets and as they were assembled Ben noticed a severe edge of black lace at the top of the doublet’s collar.

A heavy black velvet cape was then slung fashionably about his shoulders and a black belt with an ornate silver buckle was tightened around his waist. The glossy boots were tall and slim and though they pinched somewhat, they seemed molded to his foot.

Ben recalled all the measurements Armadi had taken and wondered suddenly how Armitage had ordered this all in such a short time, only a few months. The thought was whisked away when the assistant asked Ben to look in the mirrors.

Ben saw the reflection and felt something like awe swell in his chest. The figure before him was tall, powerful, imposing, proud and aristocratic in a way Ben himself had never felt. But he was recognizably himself, dark and swarthy and  _ handsome.  _ He’d always found his features and body ungainly but in such fine clothes he felt more imposing, more beautiful.

He glanced over to Armitage and found him staring Ben’s way with delight, his small hands knotted together before him and his  light eyes shining. Catching Ben’s gaze he glided over to Ben’s side and whispered, so lowly only Ben could hear, “You look wonderful, Ben. I could have you here, right now.”

Ben imagined Armadi’s shocked face if Armitage were to suddenly grab at Ben’s garments and strip him bare and flushed with confusingly intermingled shame and desire. “Thank you,” he whispered back, and Armitage gave him the smallest sliver of a smile as his fingers brushed Ben’s leg.

Then he withdrew, as Armadi’s men divested him of this set of clothes and hastily dressed him in another, a black leather jerkin and more battle-ready breeches that would allow him to run and swing a sword without encumbrance.

A skilled leatherworker had clearly been called in as Armadi presented him with fine leather vambraces, wrought with the greatest skill. A deep brownish gold undertunic went with a separate leather surcoat, ostensibly for winter, and there were many pairs of gloves—some thick, some thin, some made for battle—that fit Ben’s hands with unimaginable perfection.

There were a bewildering array of richly-colored doublets, some dark red, some green, some gold, all with intricate embroidery and a cut that made Ben look like a young prince or a king. Armitage clearly had favorites, providing him with multiple in his own family’s colors, but also thoughtfully included a few pieces and a beautiful cape in the dusty purples of the Organa family.

By the time Armadi and his assistants had wrestled Ben into each piece of finery, often multiple times in the case of “improvements,” Ben was beyond exhausted and the sun was nearly setting. So much so that he dozed off on Armitage’s shoulder on the coach ride back to the inn, too exhausted to even look out the window at the new sights.

As soon as they were back to the inn and the many boxes full of clothes were safely stowed in the corner of their room, Ben flopped exhaustedly onto the bed and refused to budge.

Armitage crawled onto the bed and lay next to him, but made no move to reach out, only gazing at Ben with something akin to fondness in his eyes.

“You look striking,” he said. “Like a knight in armor, but more beautiful.” He adjusted Ben’s collar and returned his hand to his side. “Shall we rest, then go somewhere to dine? I have just the place in mind.”

Ben nodded, too tired to object. Armitage reached out to put his hand on Ben’s arm, but Ben brushed it gently aside and took it in his own. Armitage’s expression flickered unreadably, then his eyes closed as if to sleep. Ben followed suit some moments later, drifting off almost immediately.

 

 

He woke what felt like hours later to see Armitage still sleeping peacefully. He glanced outside and saw it was dark, illuminated only by the moon and the firelight of the street lamps. With slight trepidation, he shook Armitage’s shoulder gently, relieved as he woke at the slightest touch.

“Excellent,” he said, and sat up promptly from his repose. “Let’s go, we haven’t a moment to spare. Just you and I, we won’t call for the coach.” He slipped his hand in Ben’s with a wink. “We won’t need it where we’re going.”

Ben’s stomach thrilled at the cryptic promise, half in excitement and half in worry. “Now?”

“Well, yes. I don’t see the point in standing on ceremony.” Armitage gave him a devilish, naughty smile. “Are you coming, or not?”

Ben allowed himself to be pulled off the bed and down the inn stairs onto the street below. The  cool air nipped at his cheeks and the wind pushed at his hair, the streetlamps sparkling above them like stars.

“Hurry, won’t you?” Armitage snapped, sounding slightly annoyed as Ben slowed to stare at the silhouettes of magnificent buildings. “We haven’t got all night.”

Ben hurried to catch up, tearing his gaze away from the impressive cathedral to his left. “Where are we—“

“You’ll see,” Armitage said. “It’s just this way, but it’ll be longer the more you dawdle.”

Ben’s first impression of the place was that it seemed almost reputable. Given Armitage’s predilections, this surprised him more than he wanted to admit. The style was very French and even from the outside light glimmered seductively from within, shuttered by grand, heavy wrought iron and dark wood.

Armitage pushed the doors open and waved Ben inside and Ben stepped back uncertainly as a tall, imposing-looking man glided towards them.

“Lord Armitage,” he said in greeting, and Ben could not help but be surprised and a bit confused. Did Armitage frequent this place enough to be known by name, or was his influence simply that far-reaching? “Is this gentleman your guest?”

Armitage took Ben’s arm—in public!—and clung tightly to it as Ben reflexively sought to wriggle away. “Yes, Lord Organa is my guest. We’ll have my regular accommodations.”

The man bowed slightly and turned, Armitage dragged Ben along after him. “Don’t look so ghastly terrified,” Armitage said. “It’s not befitting a big, strong Knight like you. Next you’ll be clinging to my coattails whenever a dog barks our way.”

Ben grit his teeth at the insult but managed to keep his temper in check. “That’s not—that’s not the point.”

Armitage gave him an indulgent smile and bumped his slender shoulder fondly against Ben’s. “Shh,  darling . You’ll see.”

Doors parted before them and a scene of grace and decadence unfolded before Ben, along with the distinct acrid smell of pipe smoke. Gentlemen of every description and untold elegance sat at every table, resplendent among the finery of their clothes and their surroundings. A harpsichordist played at the corner, accompanied by the mournful notes of the harp. Candlelight carried over the great hall, all bubbling with quiet conversation, and the atmosphere was almost...courtly.

“Well?” Armitage said, watching Ben’s gaze slide over the scene.

“It’s very...there are no ladies,” Ben said, a bit hesitant.

Armitage beamed. “Exactly,” he said, and tucked a bit of hair behind Ben’s ear. “It is a club for respectable and discreet gentlemen—and sometimes less-than-respectable gentlemen—of a certain...inclination to gather and cavort. By invitation and word of mouth only, of course. And they do serve such a fine chardonnay.”

Ben shifted uncomfortably in his boots. It seemed impossible that such a den of sin and debauchery could appear so patrician. “It couldn’t hurt to try the wine,” he muttered, and wriggled weakly as Armitage’s arm curled around his waist.

“No,” Armitage said, almost gently. “It wouldn’t.”

The man who had greeted them at the door lead them to a table secluded to one side, from which vantage Ben noticed the whole room was observable. Armitage settled into the booth and patted a space next to him for Ben to sit; Ben sat a good foot further and began to fiddle with the goblets.

“Oh, don’t be a bore,” Armitage chided. “See that gentleman over there, with the deep blue doublet and feathered cap? He leads the largest textile guild in London. And the man to his right is a tailor who has made gowns for the Queen.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “He must be very talented.”

“An overrated bore, if you ask me,” Armitage said breezily. “I’ve no time for his work, he has no sense of a man’s figure.”

Ben let his gaze drift over the hazy crowd, searching out an interesting face. “That one, there. In black.”

“A poet,” Armitage said, with an amused sneer. “Poets often frequent this place, in search of a Muse to while their days away.”

Ben pushed the idea of Muses and idling days away and all such horrid frivolity out of his mind. “That one there, in the red.”

“Merchant of some sort,” Armitage said. “Foreign, no doubt. I’ve seen him here only rarely. He is doubtless of no consequence. Now look at those two there. The elder, is he German?”

Ben peered where Armitage pointed. A narrow eyed man no older than Armitage himself sat in a booth near theirs. His hair was grey like stone and he seemed as  coldly content as Armitage himself. In his lap lay a beautiful creature who seemed to be almost dozing off, dressed in white and dazzling. “Russian, I’d say,” Ben said, appraising his odd, dark mode of dress and sharp features. “But his companion looks like an angel.”

“I wouldn’t be fooled,” Armitage said, a bit primly. “An angelic appearance is often duplicitous. Ah, wonderful,” he added, as another man returned bearing a bottle of wine. “You must try it, it’s a unique pleasure.”

The last was punctuated by a nudge to Ben’s foot that he hardly thought was accidental. He tried to avoid looking at Armitage but the way the candlelight lit his sculpted features was nothing short of sinful.

“Well, drink up,” Armitage said, and took a long, satisfied sip of his own. “I promise I haven’t had it poisoned, you lout, though it would serve you well.”

Ben took a sip, letting the dry, fruity flavor wash over his tongue. Notes of subtle wooden flavor and a crisp aftertaste blossomed and he nodded appreciatively. Leia would have loved it, he was quite sure.

“Drink up, Ben darling,” Armitage said, already on his second serving and looking a bit pink. “I do so promise even your drab old self will be much more fun after a few goblets.”

Ben hid a scowl. “Are we going to eat, or are you going to get drunk?”

“Both, I should think,” Armitage said with a titter. “I’ve ordered a plate of meat and cheese, and another bottle of this wine, and then I shall teach you how to flirt. I promise it’s great fun, and I know you’re so terrible at it.”

Ben’s pride smarted but he didn’t dare deny it. He sank a little more deeply into the booth and tried to admire the silverwork on the goblet, feeling his face heat. The meat and cheese arrived a few moments later and Armitage patted his arm fondly, letting him take the first pick of the cuts, and Ben felt himself relax a bit. The grey-haired man had drawn his angelic companion into his lap and was indolently kissing their shoulders as they stretched and curled around him like a cat.

“Ben, you’re blushing,” Armitage whispered, and gave a silvery laugh when Ben ducked his face into his sleeves. “Don’t be ashamed, big pup like you. It’s all very natural, they are quite beautiful.”

The last was with a forced edge, Ben thought, as if it physically pained Armitage to admit another’s beauty.

“I don’t want to stare,” Ben said, and turned his attention to the candles between them, as if that would burn away the memory. He took a handful of cheese and bit into it, ignoring Armitage’s pointed glare.

“ _ Ben, _ ” Armitage growled under his breath, “we’ve  _ talked  _ about your table manners,  _ haven’t we _ ?”

Ben choked on a bit of ham as he recalled his first dinner with Armitage, and he hastily picked up a dainty silver fork and lifted a small portion of food to his mouth with care.

“Better,” Armitage said brightly, and very purposefully patted his hand. Ben could not hold back a wince. “Now, flirting. You do want to learn, don’t you?”

Ben opened his mouth to say no, but the silver-haired Russian and his beautiful companion caught his eye and he managed a weak shrug.

Armitage smiled conspiratorially. “Even a poor, awkward thing like you can learn. Old men are the easiest, and the rich, vain ones the most fun. All it takes is a little flattery and the right touch and you’ve got them sitting in the palm of your hand.”

“Is that so.” Ben said, sourly.

Armitage gave him a sweet smile. “Come here, I’ll show you.” He patted the space beside him in the booth. “Come now, it’ll be nice, I promise.”

Reluctantly, Ben scooted a bit closer and crossed his arms more tightly over his chest.

“There you are,” Armitage said, and laid his head on Ben’s arm. His hand ghosted over Ben’s and stroked teasingly up the buttons of Ben’s doublet. “I’ve been wanting someone big and strong like you to take here with me for so long, I’m glad you’re here.”

“If I wanted a whore to fawn over me I’d hire one,” Ben snapped.

Armitage’s eyes narrowed and for a second Ben feared he might drive the small fork in his hand into Ben’s chest. Then he pushed himself languidly off the booth and leaned over the table with a sultry smile. “If you’d rather I demonstrate elsewhere, I’d love nothing more,” he purred. “I’m sure Lord Cornwall over there wouldn’t mind my company.”

Ben said nothing, following him with his gaze as he crossed the aisle, settling next to a balding man a booth away who could have been his father’s father. They exchanged pleasantry about business and weather and Armitage lay his hand on the other man’s arm, laughing sweetly. Ben could hear him inquiring about Cornwall’s tailor and complimenting the wine offered, occasionally brushing away a stray hair or inching closer, smiling shyly when the other man’s hand lay over his knee.

Ben felt a monstrous, animal rage kindling in the pit of his stomach and gripped the cheese fork more tightly in his hand, torturing himself with the vision of Cornwall’s hand slipping up Armitage’s thigh. He could have sworn Armitage’s eyes—locked on Cornwall along with his fawning flattery—slid slyly his way, mocking him. Ben had the wild, untamed urge to drag him onto the floor and have him for all to see, or beg him back, any way to make him  _ his  _ once more.

Armitage looked at him, a smirk in his  cold eyes, and Ben’s ire mounted at the sight. The smirk deepened as Ben stood up jerkily from the table, striding towards him and the infatuated Lord Cornwall.

“I’m going for a walk,” Ben snarled, and Armitage’s lips thinned. “Don’t wait up.”

He strode towards the doors before Armitage could stop him, ignoring the grey-haired man and his angelic companion and the subtle stares of those around him, then pushed the double-doors wide and stepped through.  Icy air hit him, sharp and painful, and Ben grimaced fiercely into the cold. His breath clouded in the inky air, faintly illuminated by streetlights.

He started towards the inn but the babble and seductive murmur of the city drew him in, the mysterious clatter of unseen coaches in the night, the swish of gentlemen’s cloaks and the muttering of ruffians. He swerved off the beaten path, regulating the clicking of his new boots on the stone streets, prowling through the night. The occasional light of street lamps burned at his eyes like the creature of darkness he was and he shrunk back into the shadows, back into the near-deserted alleys were whores and drunkards tottered. He watched them, followed a few, imagining the frantic beating of their hearts as he tore apart their chests and squeezed the wasted breath from their spasming lungs.

The urge and the infuriating images of Armitage and his blasted lord flashed before him, and Ben stumbled, cursing Ren his demon. The rage of rejection and the  _ urge  _ drove him blindly through the dark until he emerged onto the street, staggering like a drunk and blinking at the dazzling light like an animal.

He thought he recognized the Inn through his disoriented haze and a blazing light from the topmost window caught his eye. Two silhouettes were just vaguely visible—or perhaps it was a figment of his mind—locked in a twined embrace. A growl trapped itself in Ben’s throat and he could  _ hear  _ Armitage’s soft moans, see the faceless Lord Cornwall’s lips tasting Armitage’s body, holding it close and taking sweet pleasure. No guilt, freely, no demon. Shameless, utterly shameless.

A  deeper, stronger  rage tightened around his chest and Ben could feel the demon curling within him like a wisp of smoke. The bodies were at the window for what felt like hours, winking in and out as if made from candlelight, before the Inn door flew open and a familiar man in flamboyant rich man’s clothes stumbled out like a drunk.

Ben watched him stagger down the street in wonderment, then carefully crept after him in the shadows, slinking away from the light for fear it might unmask him. Cornwall was oblivious, flushed with the tinge of wine and stank of sex, reeked with it. Ben grit his teeth and bit back a growl, tortured by Armitage’s imaginary cries, the rapturous figures illuminated in the window.

Cornwall stepped into the shadows and Ben crept forth faster, hand curling around the knife he’d removed from his belt. Within moments the soft flesh of his throat was in Ben’s grip; he gurgled weakly before Ben slashed his knife in a jerky motion through his neck. Blood splattered over the flagstones; Ben dropped the slackened corpse and knelt to retrieve his prize. A few quick motions of his knife through Cornwall’s breeches—just like with venison—and he was away, his shirtsleeves and doublet cooling with the spilt blood.

He made his way into the Inn and up the stairs to Armitage’s room in a daze, oddly numb yet at peace, a new kind of hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. The door was unlocked and he strode in without fanfare. Armitage sat at the table by the fire, slender legs crossed neatly at the knee, attentive on the book in his hand.

Ben threw down the meaty piece of flesh on the table with a wet  _ slap. _

Armitage looked up from his book, and smiled.

 

 

The next week passed in a haze of rosy debauchery, sex and wine and all kinds of heathen indulgences. They attended dizzying balls, thrilling parties, the most hellish of taverns. A joust which Ben enjoyed very much—Armitage watched from beneath lowered lashes and kissed Ben as often as Ben would let him—where the champion was revealed to be none other than young Prince Henry himself, to the jubilant and wild adoration of the crowds. A fine opera of thrilling emotional depths and highs, which Ben was hardly able to appreciate as Armitage seated them in the isolated box high above the theatre. From this vantage he spent the entire spectacle with his head between Ben’s legs, torturing Ben as he fought to keep silent.

He failed, and called out more than twice.

When they were not out they stayed entwined, hardly parting to put a log on the fire or stoke the flames, or to fetch food. Ben had feared he would tire instantly but found himself insatiable, gazing always at Armitage’s face, his shining hair, his lithe and beautiful body. Armitage showered Ben’s body with praise in turn, kissing and stroking him in the most shivering, tantalizing ways. Ben had never before experienced such ardent pleasure.

Ben did not recoil from his sin. He reveled in it, like a pig in a sty, grunting and squealing and consuming with heedless greed and reckless abandon. And Armitage’s cruelty and indulgences showed in equal measures, sometimes brutal and sometimes sweet, but never yielding.

And Ben loved him. And hated him. Drawn to him inexorably as much as he was repulsed.

“Come, come  darling !” Armitage called, rather drunkenly. A large goblet of wine was spilling out of his hand, dying the bathwater a rosy shade of pink that was outstripped by the reddening of his pale skin. “Come, Ben, come sit with me, the water’s lovely.”

Ben made his way to the basin and eased himself in, avoiding Armitage’s slippery legs. Water hit his face and he reared back, almost toppling out of the bath.

Armitage offered him a smirk and flicked more water his way, hitting him in the face. “Ben,  darling , you didn’t bring me more wine.”

Ben tried to ignore him but the willful  look in his eyes suggested otherwise. Dripping wet and mostly naked, Ben pushed himself out of the basin and trudged his way to the side table, feet slapping wetly on the  cold stone floors.

“Hurry,” Armitage called arily. “I haven’t all day.”

Ben grabbed the bottle and brought it back to the extended goblet and poured. Armitage knocked the goblet against the bottle and stretched his legs across the basin. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get in and drink with me.”

Ben obeyed, splaying his knees to the sides of the basin so Armitage could tease him with his toes.

“How do you like London,  darling ?”

“It’s nice,” Ben said carefully, taking a swig of wine and letting it sit in his mouth a few moments before swallowing. Leia and Luke certainly did not believe in such fine wines, and Lando had been carefully supervised lest he lead Ben into temptation.

It seemed particularly ironic that to safeguard him they had delivered him into the arms of the devil himself.

“Oh  darling , I can hear you brooding from here,” Armitage said, his bored expression not matching the honeyed concern in his voice. His fingers brushed under Ben’s chin. “What is wrong? You can confide in me,  darling , I swear by it.”

“I have nothing to brood about,” Ben protested, and that drew an impish smile. “What more does a man need than food, wine, and a soft bed?”

“The arms of a beautiful companion, perhaps?” Armitage was definitely drunk. Ben was quite sure he was as well. “Or is this a confession that I fall into one of the three categories mentioned?”

Ben shook his head, quite confused.

“Intoxicating, like wine?” Armitage asked, and gripped the edge of the tub to pull himself closer to Ben, breathing lustily into his face. “Delectable, as food? Or do you simply want to lie with me, as with a bed?”

The truth was, it was somewhere between the three. Ben allowed himself to be pushed back, Armitage tugging at his hair and mouthing into Ben’s lips, climbing into Ben’s lap. Ben opened his mouth slightly and tasted wine, Armitage’s saliva thick and sweet with drink. The edge of the basin dug into the back of his neck and the way Armitage rocked his hips had his body already straining with desire, so quick and filthy.

“Bed,” Armitage panted, and jerked his hips against Ben’s, making Ben moan. “Carry me, Ben.”

Ben didn’t have to be ordered twice. He curled his hands under Armitage’s thighs and lifted him, pushing himself out of the basin and stepping out, carrying the wet, slippery, and surprisingly heavy burden to the bed. Armitage spilled eagerly onto the coverlets and Ben realized he’d spilled wine all down Ben’s back.

“Come now,  darling . Lie down for me so I may mount.”

Ben flushed, and not from the drink. Then he climbed onto the bed, grimacing as it creaked under his weight, canting his hips at an angle and trying not to feel humiliated. He failed, and it made the pooling heat in his cock intensify immensely.

Armitage’s  hot  tongue laved over the stretch of skin between his balls and entrance, swirling around him and sending sparks shooting straight to the coiling beast at the pit of Ben’s stomach. He grit his teeth and set against whining aloud. He’d been more or less stretched open over the past few days and soon warmed fat was dripping from his thighs, Armitage’s fingers stretching him sweetly.

Ben shuddered as he was breached, lungs thickening in his chest. His spit already soaked the covers and his thighs were straining.

“Too tight,” Armitage mumbled against his shoulder, seizing his waist. “Relax...’laxen up for me  darling , it’ll be better.”

A whine escaped Ben’s teeth and he pushed out a shallow breath, attempting to comply. Armitage’s hands roamed down his leg in a semblance of soothing, sharp nails raking gently over his skin.

“Good boy,” he said, in a throaty way that made Ben’s stomach slip and coil. His shoulders already screamed and his neck ached—he just needed Armitage to—

“Sweetheart, you’re so tense,” Armitage breathed against his neck. “Tell me what you need.” Slender arms wrapped and pulled around his chest and Ben groaned as he rolled his hips slightly.

“Fuck,” Ben mumbled, almost mindlessly. “Fuck me—fuck me. Please.”

“Fuck me please  _ my lord,”  _ Armitage corrected archly. He teased Ben with shallow thrusts until Ben groaned, tearing at the bedspread and pleading silently for release.

“My lord,” Ben gasped out. “Please, my lord.”

Armitage stilled and Ben whined before he curled his fingers into the roots of Ben’s hair at the back of his skull, cruelly tight. Then Armitage yanked Ben’s head back and he whined in pain and anticipation, shoulders straining.

Armitage thrust roughly and Ben gasped, moaning wantonly and arching away from the rough bedspread as Armitage fisted a hand around Ben’s cock. Ben pushed his hips back clumsily against Armitage’s, groaning and grunting with every thrust. He felt owned, claimed, manhandled like an unruly beast, reduced to his own basest desires and pleasures—

His whole body seized and Ben bucked mindlessly in the grip of unconscious bliss. Dimly he could feel Armitage fucking him through it, pushing him along the wave of ecstasy. Then  heat flooded him, his whole body, or so it felt, and they both collapsed in a sticky, sweaty haze, Armitage sprawled over him as if comatose.

Ben drifted in a dazed, sated state for what could have been hours or days. Armitage shifted occasionally, swirling his  warm tongue lazily over Ben’s back, lulling him deeper. Then at last Armitage rolled off him; Ben moved to follow but Armitage stilled him with a firm,  warm hand on the small of his back.

“Lay still,  darling ,” he whispered. “If you don’t spill a drop by the time I’m back, I’ll fuck you like that again. How does that sound, Ben,  darling ?”

Ben nodded and allowed himself to drift off into sleep.

 

 

“Such a lovely little play,” Armitage told him as they strode down the winding street in the cool  night air, glowing with incandescent excitement. “So much drama! So much murder. Almost like they’re playing at our own little game, isn’t it, Ben?”

Ben nodded his agreement, watching Armitage dance down the street with amusement. The wind whipped at his hair and pulled strands of it free. He wished briefly, illogically, that he were a painter, so that he could capture his beautiful smile and the joy in his eyes, the way he gazed at Ben as if he were the only man in the whole city. As it was, he felt he could drop all other aims and devote himself to learning the art, if only he could capture this moment.

“Shall we go to the inn? Or should we wander around some, we have all the time in the world, Ben. We could find another tavern to visit, or we could—“

A dark figure caught Ben’s eye and his instincts thrilled with danger. His hand dropped to his knife but before he could say anything in warning the telltale buzz of an arrow whizzed deafeningly loud by Ben’s ear and Armitage dropped to the cobblestones.

Ben’s mind roared and he fell to his knees, grabbing Armitage’s shoulders and shaking hard enough to draw a cry from him.

“Stop that, Ben!” Armitage hissed between gritted teeth, grabbing at his wounded shoulder, where an arrow pierced his doublet, already soaking with blood. “The bastard’s getting away, have after him.”

Ben obeyed instantly, leaping up and dashing after the fleeing figure, slamming into a faceless gentleman who hurried to Armitage’s aid and wrenching his sword from his belt.

The assassin’s dark mask twisted back and his pace quickened. An angry, primal fire burned in Ben’s chest and he willed his pounding strides to carry him across the cobblestones more swiftly. The gap between them was closing rapidly; the assassin knew this and twisted around to fire off an arrow—

Ben threw himself to the cobblestones moments before an arrow whizzed over his head, tumbling painfully over the stones, his whole body shaken with the force of impact. Concentrated,  cold rage drove him off the ground just as the assassin scaled a ramshackle tavern to access the close-crowded roofs.

He sheathed the sword in his belt and leapt up onto the windowsill, jamming his foot into a hole in the wood and pulling himself up as rapidly as possible. His heart hammered in his chest—he could not lose the man, he would not. They were his prey, and he could not wait to sink his claws into their flesh.

At last he pulled himself onto the top of the tavern, focus on the fleeing figure leaping onto the next roof. Ben scrambled to his feet, dashing recklessly forward even as he skittered on the loose shingles. He took a flying leap, free and weightless as he soared through the dark, smoky air.

He landed with a sharp impact that slammed up his ankles to his knees. The assassin was escaping swiftly, heading for an intimidating spire.

Ben seized his father’s knife from his belt and hurled it the fleeing figure’s way. He stumbled; Ben sprinted toward him, sword drawn, snarl pulling at his lips.

The assassin drew a sword of his own; the blade flashed. Ben ignored it and delivered a thundering overhead swing; the assassin swung around to parry at the last second. Their blades locked and Ben bore down on his own with a growl. Up close he could see the assassin’s face, his  wide, dark eyes , the fearful resolution that radiated from him like a stench. His grip was weakening; Ben shoved their blades forwards—

The assassin slipped and Ben spun around on instinct to hammer a boot into his chest. He jerked back and stumbled over the edge of the roof, falling from view. A dull  _ thud  _ and a muffled cry; Ben rushed to the edge of the roof and saw the dark figure sprawled on the ground, stirring weakly. Ben thought he could make out the gleam of blood and grimaced.

Within moments he was on the ground, the assassin crawling desperately away. Ben felt a rush of some cruel sort of satisfaction and lifted his sword, driving it down and lancing it through the man’s thigh, pinning him to the earth. Ben thrust it further with his weight and the man screamed, pulling frantically at his ruined limb.

Ben watched him with sick fascination, his heaving chest like a cornered deer, the helpless, jerky, panicked movements, the horror in his  eyes . Something dark and tremblingly powerful rose in his chest like a plume of black smoke and he could feel his pulse speed, horrible urges pulling at his limbs like strings.  _ Ren. _

Ben rebuked the demon with the thought of Armitage bleeding on the cobblestones, the awful panic that had bubbled in him like some witch’s potion. The assassin meant nothing. He must find Armitage—he had to be alive.

On that impulse Ben plucked one of the assassin’s arrows from his quiver and spun around and lurched back towards the inn.

 

 

“Lord Organa,” the innkeeper breathed, seizing his arm as soon as he’d burst through the door. “Lord Hux has been calling for you.”

Ben’s heart leapt, imagining Armitage pallid and tearful upon his deathbed, calling for Ben to save him.

“ _ BEN _ !”

Ben started, jerking around to see Armitage spread out upon a table, teeth bared in a snarl, sweaty hair sticking to his face and shoulders, soaked red with blood. A silver-haired man in physician’s garb stood at his side, bloodied knife in his hand. A small angel sat at Armitage’s side, watching his furious pain with wide-eyed fascination. With a jolt of surprise, Ben recognized them from the gentleman’s den of sin Armitage had taken him to just days before.

Ben hurried to Armitage’s side and tried not to wince as Armitage’s hand gripped his like a vice.

“Did you find them?” Armitage demanded, his voice strained and breathy, but no less commanding.

“Yes,” Ben said, and gripped Armitage’s hand in return. “I stopped him.”

“Good,” Armitage growled. His  glassy eyes were wild  with what looked like fever or delirium; the sweat beaded on his skin and the blood reminded Ben viscerally of Armitage’s torment at his own hands. Ben felt the sudden need to re-arrange his breeches.

“I have the arrow the brigand used,” Ben said to the physician, and procured the arrowhead from his belt, a wickedly sharp iron barb that flared outwards at the base. It would be impossible to pull out without harming Armitage further—the physician would have to cut it out. Ben had heard of such a thing being done, but had never seen it.

“My thanks,” the physician said. His English was accented in a way that spoke of Germanic origins, but his hard, pale, angular face and ice-colored eyes suggested something more exotic. There was something cold and muted about his whole aspect, his ramrod-straight posture, his too-keen eyes. He took the arrowhead from Ben’s palm and his hand was like ice. Ben took in his smooth skin, silver hair, depthless gaze, and could not confidently determine his age. He seemed at once ancient in aspect and youthful in body.

The little angel took Ben’s other hand in their own small ones. “Your companion will be fine,” they said sweetly. Large, beautiful hazel eyes met his own, framed by long, thick lashes and curly, ashen brown hair. Their lips were pink, full, and perfectly curved. “Take heart.”

“That’s very comforting,” Armitage snapped, sharp nails digging into the back of Ben’s hand until he nearly yelped. “Ben, you bastard, don’t you leave my—“ the word ended in a yell as the physician pushed the silver blade in his hand into Armitage’s  milky  skin. Blood spilled eagerly from the cut and Armitage hissed as the physician teased the edges of the incision apart, pushing the blade in with small, precise strokes.

Ben felt his stomach clench. The arrow was in deep. The wound would be long to heal if the physician was not highly skilled—if it healed at all.

Armitage groaned as the arrow shifted, the long column of his throat moving as he swallowed. His thin chest was heaving erratically, his free hand by his side clenched into a fist. Ben’s breath was quite short as he watched the shallow rise and fall of Armitage’s narrow ribs and soft stomach.

The physician worked with deliberate, careful cuts; Armitage fought to stay still, occasionally groaning through his tightly-gritted teeth. The angel by Ben’s side clung sweetly to his side, pressing their cheek fondly against his arm.

At last the physician reached the arrowhead. The cuts were deep and continued to bleed; Armitage himself was quite  pale , drenched in sweat and shaking slightly from exertion. The whole ordeal made Ben feel uncomfortably  warm in his thick, heavy doublet.

The physician gripped the shaft of the arrow firmly and Armitage groaned. Then he pulled, sharply and deliberately.

Armitage cried out, sharp and short, then again more loudly as the arrow’s barbs pulled up through the cuts in his skin. Muscles strained in his slender body but he kept still, jaw clenched so tightly Ben was momentarily afraid his teeth might shatter.

Then the arrow was free, bloody and wicked. Armitage went limp, blood welling in the cavity in his shoulder. He looked so helpless, so beautiful and tormented, and Ben could not help but trail his fingers over one fevered cheek.

The physician said something to his little angel in what sounded like Italian and they scampered away from Ben’s side, fetching a black bag and fishing out a glass vial about the size of Ben’s palm, which they pressed into the physician's bloodied hands. The physician stroked their curls fondly and they beamed up at him as if he were God Himself.

“Ben,” Armitage said suddenly, his voice soft and hoarse. “The assassin. Do they live?”

Ben nodded darkly.

“Good,” Armitage said. His eyes were shut but his translucent lashes fluttered, just slightly. “Well done.”

Pride welled in Ben’s chest and he squeezed Armitage’s hand, just a little. “You bear this bravely,” Ben told him. “It’s almost over.”

The physician unstoppered the vial. It smelled foul and caustic, and had no color, like water. “This is in case the arrow was poisoned,” he told Ben. “It will sting...significantly, but it should ward off infection.”

Ben nodded, a pit of worry burrowing in his stomach. He gripped Armitage’s hand as the physician tipped the vial over the wound—

Armitage screamed, back arching, writhing so that the clear liquid splattered uselessly over his chest. Ben grabbed his arms and pressed them down, jerking back as Armitage’s teeth snapped dangerously close to his throat.

Then the physician stopped, stoppering the vial. Armitage’s cries halted and his struggles slowed; the little angel pulled a reddish-brown tincture of laudanum from the bag and spooned a healthy portion into Armitage’s mouth. Slowly, his shaking ceased, and his  entire body went still.

“You can have the wounds dressed, I take it?” the physician asked, interrupting Ben’s focused gaze on Armitage’s slack face. “We will bind the wound now but you must change the bandage daily and apply this ointment to prevent pollution of the wound.”

“I can,” Ben said, and one silver brow quirked. The physician spoke to his little assistant once again and they skipped off, pure white gown trailing behind them. Then he took out a small skin of some foul-smelling substance and swiped some on his fingers, mopping up the excess blood on Armitage’s skin and spreading it over the edges of the wound. Ben watched in fascination as his long fingers probed the wound, skin buzzing strangely.

The angelic assistant returned some moments later with armfuls of bandages, which they delivered faithfully into the physician’s hands. Together they swiftly, skillfully bound Armitage’s shoulder, removing the ruined doublet entirely and casting it aside. Bared and unconscious, Armitage seemed as fragile and vulnerable as a slender-stemmed flower.

The thought was accompanied with a sudden  heat that swept down between his legs with practiced ease.

Then the pair were done, tucking away the last ends of the bandages. The physician gathered his knives and tools and spoke in hushed tones with the innkeeper.

The assistant took Ben’s hand. “You must help carry him to his bed,” they told him. “We must make him comfortable now.”

Ben nodded, and gathered Armitage’s prone form carefully in his arms, supporting his bandaged shoulder with his forearm. The angel skipped up the stairs and Ben followed, watching the slow, easy rise and fall of Armitage’s chest. He deposited him on the bed, letting the angel pull back the blankets and tuck him in carefully.

Ben stood beside them, feeling superfluous.

“I see you’ve enjoyed the goings-on,” they said playfully,  hazel eyes fixed on his. Their pretty lips were parted just slightly and there was an impish gleam to their eyes.

“Pardon?” Ben said, suddenly paranoid.

Their lips pressed together in a guilty little smile and their eyes slanted pointedly towards Ben’s breeches.

Hot , horrible embarrassment shot through him and Ben had the sudden urge to shoo them from the room. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, trying not to notice how prominently the fabric of his breeches tented.

“It’s okay,” they said sweetly. “I enjoyed it too.”

Before Ben could react they sprang up and scampered down the stairs, calling out something in Italian. Ben followed, still smarting with shame and confusion, grabbing his coin purse as he hurried down the stairs.

When he arrived in the landing once more, the angel had latched their arms around the physician’s waist and was snuggling into his shoulder. The innkeeper was thanking him profusely, which he accepted with a  edged  smile that reminded Ben almost of Armitage himself.

As Ben neared, he plucked his assistant from his side, looping one arm around their shoulder. He wore black gloves and a black coat over his shirtsleeves, likely to conceal the splatters of blood.

“You have my thanks, good physician,” Ben said, and pressed the purse into his hand. “You both have saved Lord Hux’s life.”

“The pleasure is ours,” the physician said with that same  enigmatic  smile, allowing his assistant to clutch at the purse and tuck it into their gown.

“Should we have need of you again, by what name should we search you out?” Ben asked.

“Vincent Engel,” the physican said with an incline of his head. “And Cadenze Russo, my assistant. We travel broadly but a man by the name of Calrissian should be able to reach us.”

“Lando?” Ben said, smiling broadly. “He’s my...well, he’s my godfather.”

“Excellent,” Vincent said, ignoring Cadenze as they tugged insistently at his coat. “Thank you for your generosity, Lord Organa. Please call on us should Lord Hux’s condition worsen. We should be in town for a week or so more.”

Ben bade him goodbye, and after an exchange of pleasantries they left. Ben watched them go from the loft window where Armitage slept, unable to shake a sense of unease.

There was a  _ thump  _ and an angry cry and Ben whirled around to see Armitage on the floor, scowling and grimacing in pain.

“What are you doing?” Ben demanded, helping him off the floor and trying not to be hurt as he shook Ben off, clambering weakly into bed on his own. “You should be asleep—“

“Forget that,” Armitage said with a wave of his hand. “Where is the assassin? You said they were alive.”

Ben allowed himself a slight smile, a dark edge to his good spirits. “Very likely still in the same place as I left them.”

“Good. Call around the coach and put them into the baggage hold, I don’t care what you do to keep them there, as long as they’re alive. We leave for the castle tonight.”

“Tonight?” Ben repeated incredulously. “You’re not fit to make it down the stairs, let alone a coach ride. We don’t even know who did this, or why—“

“ _Y_ _ ou  _ may not,” Armitage said, with an irrational edge of smugness. “It means good things, and we will pluck the details from the assassin at our leisure. Which we cannot do here.”

Ben pressed his lips together, knotting his arms over his chest. He ought not to obey. Armitage was not well and his condition could kill him. And the assassin—

Ben felt no pity for him.

“Make haste, and we may have time for a little lovemaking before we depart,” Armitage said, knifing through his thoughts.

“You  _ are  _ insane,” Ben said, aghast. “We can’t possibly—think of how it would hurt—“

“The lady doth protest too much,” Armitage said with a playful smile. The smile hardened. “I would do it to you.”

Ben swallowed, a pit of fear hollowing in his stomach. “I’ll—I’ll go get the assassin.”

Armitage nodded, following Ben with his gaze as he made for the door; Ben’s skin crawled under the scrutiny.

The assassin was still where Ben had left him, trapped by the blade spearing through the meat of his thigh. He’d made quite the bloody mess of it with all his struggling, but was still very much alive, grunting and snuffling like a terrified, caged animal.

Ben bound his wrists and ankles with spare strips of bandage and let a few drops of laudanum dribble onto his lips, then seized the hilt of the sword and wrenched it from the mud, wiping its blade on the assassin’s jerkin and tucking it into his belt. Then he crouched down and hauled the assassin’s prone form onto his shoulder.

When he returned to the inn the coach was prepared and ready at the front. The surly stableboy, Matthew, glared at Ben as he approached, but the resentment was tinged with fear.

Ben rounded the coach and found the boot already empty. He dumped the assassin’s prone form into the compartment, shoving him in place so his all his limbs would fit, then fastened the cover and rounded the coach to the compartment and wrenched the door open.

Armitage was already bundled into one leather seat. To Ben’s great relief, he seemed deep in slumber.

Ben clambered into the coach and slammed the door behind him before it lurched into motion, back towards the Hux manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major warning for dubcon, continued warning for the extreme bullshit headgames and mindfucking, explicit depictions of violence/disturbing or bloody images, vomit mention, pet play?? and d/s overtones, massive internalized homophobia, medieval medicine that’s sort of explicit, gore undertones, wildly under-negotiated....everything. Hit me up for deets if ya need em.
> 
> Also, I’ll be redoing the main tags in a bit, there’s some stuff it occurred to me belatedly I should warn for in advance. I know it sort of introduces spoilers but I don’t want certain things to be a nasty surprise? I’m honestly terrible at main tags and I apologize, it is a work in progress. Again, if you have any suggestions or requests, please let me know! <3
> 
> Additionally, while I had to restrain myself from having them see Shakespeare a hundred or so years early, the “the lady doth protest too much” is a wild anachronism, as well as carriages, apparently? Those both appear during Elizabeth’s reign, quite a few years after this. However, the joust where then-Prince Henry is revealed as the champion only after emerging as victor did in fact occur in 1512. I waffled a while whether to set this in the Elizabethan Era (my favorite) or to push it back a bit earlier and I eventually went with Henry VIII for a good dose of irony—Armie would definitely be a fan of Henry VIII. 
> 
> Also you may notice that I’ve tried to keep the racism and sexism to a dull roar—I know it’s unrealistic but srs I’m not really interested in trying to make this overtly hard to read in that dimension, I think we’ve got enough going with.....well, everything else. In that vein the physician’s assistant (Cadenze) does indeed use they/their pronouns!
> 
> A last note: Special thank you again to [horatiosroom](http://horatiosroom.tumblr.com) for the life-saving beta!!! <3 She did like....57 pages in just a couple of days and HOO boy does she have war stories about pre-edited me.... 
> 
> TLDR the year is 1512 under Henry VII and I took liberties with history. If you wanna talk Elizabeth I hit me up and we can talk each others’ ears off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! So first off, my apologies for the long wait between updates, this chapter really was like blood out of stone. As such, it's sort of choppy, and I'm afraid I just ran out of energy to fix it completely. That being said, there's some things I really like about it, so I hope you enjoy! Please check the notes before reading <3

“Answer me!” Ben roared. The wet rot of the dungeon had sunk into his skin, the heat of the torches searing his skin like the Spanish sun. Sweat poured into his face, into his eyes, soaking his shirtsleeves. And inside him it burned, burned like a feral madness.

The assassin’s dark eyes flickered. All the defiance and cleverness had seeped from them, leaving behind only a stubborn, tired resolution. A resolution Ben could not seem to break.

Ben gave the rope a furious jerk and grimaced fiercely at the assassin’s screams as his bound arms strained further, agonizingly backwards in his shoulders, tearing slowly from their sockets where he dangled some few feet from the flagstones. “Answer,” Ben growled. “Do you want to keep doing this all day, all night? I can and I will—you’ll know pain like no other man in Creation!”

A hand brushed his arm and Ben started slightly. Armitage had stood aside motionless and silent throughout the whole ordeal, watching through lowered lashes, and in the heat of it all Ben had nearly forgotten he was there.

“Let him down, Ben,” Armitage said gently, and there was something smooth and musical about his voice that reminded Ben strangely of the foreign snake charmer Lando had once taken him to see. Ben had of course dismissed her as a pagan and a heathen, but the way she had brought the viper to heel had been nothing short of magical and stayed in his mind.

“Let him down?” Ben repeated, blankly.

Armitage gave him a sideways glance that brokered no argument and Ben hurried to comply, unbinding the rope from the pulley frame and letting it go. The assassin’s body slammed into the stones and a few seconds later he gave a belated moan.

Armitage adjusted the heavy white sling around his shoulders and knelt down by the assassin’s prone form, turning him over with care not to jostle his ruined shoulders.

“There, there,” Armitage said soothingly, and Ben could hardly believe his eyes. “No no, don’t worry now, I don’t want to hurt you.” He guided the man’s head to face his own. “There, there. Do you need water? I’m sure you’re parched. Ben, fetch the goblet from the table up the stairs, you’ll know it when you see it.”

Ben stumbled to obey, hurrying up the winding dungeon stairs until he emerged, blinking at the harsh light of the corridor and somewhat out of breath. Indeed, as Armitage had said, there was a narrow table and a goblet of what appeared to be water sitting by the wall.

Ben snatched up the goblet and returned down the stairs, confused and annoyed by Armitage’s subterfuge. When he arrived Armitage had cradled the assassin against the wall and was speaking to him in those low, smooth tones, whispering things Ben could not quite hear.

“...it doesn’t have to be this way, you know,” Armitage said, and it seemed to Ben that crystal tears sparkled in his eyes. “I don’t want you dead, I have no quarrel with you. You don’t have to fear death or retribution from me, all I need from you is information. I need what you know to make my lands prosper. You could be my loyal subject—have a little plot of land, livestock. Your family—do you have a son? A daughter? Yes, a daughter. You could see her grow to be a clever young woman. Just tell me who hired you, and I have no need to see you dead. You believe me, don’t you?”

Ben watched in rapt fascination as Armitage gazed intensely at the assassin with beseeching eyes, so intense and earnest Ben could almost bring himself to believe it, see the dim glimmer of this sparkling future on the assassin’s bleak horizons. He could see in his mind’s eye the humble hut and happy cows, the rows of grain and thriving children, the contented wife and contented farmer.

“If you can’t help me, I won’t be able to stop Ben from hurting you again,” Armitage said, and he sounded genuinely heartbroken, pretty lips trembling. “It was awful, wasn’t it? You don’t want to do that again.”

“No,” the assassin gasped out. “No, not again.”

“Then help me,” Armitage said.

Ben watched the assassin’s face twist and harden and he knew he was struggling against what he knew were lies. Ben knew Armitage would not let him live, and so did the assassin, but Armitage seemed so sincere, so reasonable—there was no reason for him to die. If he gave up what Armitage wanted now, he would be forgiven, able to earn his way as a loyal subject. He wouldn’t be subjected to the rack or the ropes or other such horrors again. He would be free from death and pain.

Ben almost believed him, just a little.

“Poyrew.” It was almost more of a sign than a spoken word, a confessor to a priest. “Poyrew paid me. He wants you dead. He didn’t tell me why. It was my idea to follow you to London, I knew the perpetrator would be less obvious than killing you in your own castle.” He grimaced. “On second thought, I should have known better.”

“Don’t worry,” Armitage said, and brushed the man’s sweaty, grimy cheek with his fingers. “None of that matters now. You’ve done very well. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

The assassin’s body slumped, as if every last bit of resistance had left him.

“You’ve served me well,” Armitage said sweetly, and Ben could see the hope in the man’s fevered face, unsmotherable. Even the cynical mind of a man who killed for coin could not help but grasp onto such a sweet dream of mercy.

Armitage patted his cheek affectionately, pushing himself up with effort, his one hand clutching at the wall. Ben could see the exertion this cost him, the set of his jaw against the pain of his wound. There was something faintly martyrly about the image, a protector and giver of mercy struggling at the side of the forgiven.

Then he strode closer and the image was lost, something hard and cold exuding from him like a wave of frost.

“Kill him.”

  
  
  
  


“Gently,” Armitage admonished, teeth gritting as Ben jostled his injured shoulder. Ben apologized quickly and tried to administer the salve the physician had given him more tenderly, the edges of the wound still pronounced, red, and angry. But no fluids leaked from it and it seemed just firm enough to be healthy, so Ben pushed his worries away to a further part of his mind.

The young man with missing teeth—Jonathan, Ben had learned—came forth bearing freshly-boiled bandages, which Ben had supervised himself. Ben accepted them with murmured thanks and sat the basket of them on the bed beside him, selecting the topmost and binding it carefully over the wound.

“Who is Poyrew?” Ben asked, keeping his eyes fixed on his work.

Armitage’s expression did not so much as flicker but Ben felt his sudden exhale flutter against his own cheek. “Of little concern to you, I assure you,” he said smoothly, only hitching slightly when Ben jostled his shoulder. “It is a petty squabble amongst us lords over our lands, nothing more.”

“You must think me so stupid,” Ben said, a bit more acidic than intended. “Men do not buy the assassination of their rivals over trivial minutiae.”

Armitage had the gall to look amused and Ben grit his teeth and bore it, pushing back on the temptation to knock against his arm hard enough to cause him pain. “I suppose I oversimplify matters somewhat,” he conceded, and Ben fought the temptation to roll his eyes heavenwards.

“If it’s my loyalty you doubt, I’ve already proven myself,” Ben said, hearing petulance creep into his own voice. “Your traitorous vassal was a test of it, and I’m not such the dullard I didn’t notice. You can trust me with whatever threat this coward Poyrew brings. I swear it.”

Armitage seemed to watch him a moment, shrewd eyes that reminded Ben of a small animal regarding him from a bush. Then he said, “Lord Poyrew owns lands next to mine. Under the pitiful mismanagement of my father, we were forced to cede entire villages to his rule. Had my father not passed at the time he did, our family likely would have been forced into vassalage to Poyrew. I’ve reversed some of the damage and Poyrew himself is growing old and infirm, but he has many sons—more bastards than legitimate sons—and they grow more restless and aggressive each day. I would not be surprised if they were behind the attack rather than the old man himself.”

Ben’s hand curled into a fist at his side. A man much like Poyrew had threatened Lady Organa’s sovereignty, and though in her wisdom and show of force he desisted, Ben had felt such a black fear and hatred for the man that had made even himself tremble. He’d followed one of the man’s daughters for some time, but had restrained himself from killing her—she was innocent in her father’s schemes. But it had been a close thing.

“I won’t let him take an acre more,” Ben growled, Ren’s fury curling around his chest like smoke until he could scarcely breathe. Armitage was almost fully underneath him now, so far did he now lean over, the bandages forgotten. “Men such as him can burn in hell.”

Armitage’s hand ghosted the side of Ben’s face as he smiled, sweetly. “Ben, darling. Have you not considered that I have faith in your loyalty, yet fear for your life?”

Ben bit at his mouth, throwing a leg over Armitage’s hips and groaning as a slender thigh pressed perfectly between his legs. Ben curled his arms under the small of Armitage’s back and pulled his narrow waist to his own, biting and mouthing bruises at the base of Armitage’s neck and uninjured shoulder. He tore at the buttons on Armitage’s shirtsleeves and pushed his lips over the soft, pearly skin, reveling in how Armitage sighed and shuddered as he kissed and licked and bit, working his way downwards until he’d gotten to Armitage’s sharp hips and the soft curve of his stomach.

“Go on, Ben darling,” Armitage said roughly, oddly composed for the decadent whines that had spilled from his lips. “High time someone trained you to put those pretty lips to use for something other than brash declarations and chaste kisses.”

Something curled in Ben’s gut and tightened as Armitage’s thumb pushed his lips apart and opened his mouth. Ben unbuttoned Armitage’s breeches as two slender fingers pushed into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue.

“Suck,” Armitage commanded, expression amused and lazy.

Ben tightened his lips around Armitage’s fingers, heat and a peculiar buzzing washing over his face and chest and shooting straight to his groin.

“There you go,” Armitage cooed, voice smooth and velvety. “Good boy, Ben. You’ve a mouth perfect for fucking.”

Ben whined at the indecency of his words but could not deny the heat that pooled in his cock at the thought.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Armitage asked, almost languidly. There was impish amusement in the curled corners of his mouth. “Do you want to choke on my cock, big strong boy like you? I think you’d look very pretty with come on your face, but I think you’d prefer it going down your throat.”

Ben groaned and accidentally bit down on Armitage’s fingers, earning himself a sharp knee to the chest that took the breath from his lungs.

“Do that again and it’ll be your miserable cock hurting, not your soft bosom,” Armitage hissed. “Now use those pretty lips and useless tongue of yours instead of your teeth, or you soon won’t have any of either.”

Ben pushed his tongue clumsily around the pads of Armitage’s fingers, feeling sloppy and rather stupid. Armitage’s barb about his chest smarted almost as much as the blow; he felt humiliated, pathetic, and ungainly. Armitage’s lips curled slightly in a sneer, but he allowed Ben to suck at his fingers, indulgent.

Armitage withdrew, trailing a string of saliva from Ben’s lips. “Not too miserable for a first try,” he said, more gently than Ben expected. He patted Ben’s cheek. “Don’t fret, darling. I’m sure you’ll do much better with my cock, won’t you?”

Ben swallowed fearfully, eyeing Armitage’s pretty cock nestled in its bed of red-gold curls. His mouth watered, just a little, and he longed to please Armitage. He nodded.

“Good,” Armitage cooed, and ran his fingers through Ben’s hair, gripping a handful at the back of his head hard enough to make Ben yelp. “Now do exactly as I say and don’t use your teeth, or you may end up like poor Jonathan.”

Ben reared back and Armitage gave a high, clear laugh like the ring of silver bells. “Don’t be so gullible, Ben.” He knocked a knee gently into Ben’s chin. “But do behave yourself. Are you ready, dearest?”

Ben swallowed, and nodded. Armitage was already half-hard, his legs spread languidly. He dipped in his head and mouthed wetly at his inner thighs, as Armitage had done for him before. He pressed kisses into his protruding hip bones, the soft hair around Armitage’s groin tickling Ben’s face. Armitage moaned and tugged painfully at Ben’s hair when Ben sucked at the burn scar he himself had inflicted, curling his legs around Ben’s shoulders.

Armitage tugged Ben’s head towards his stiffened cock, pearled just slightly. Ben’s heart fluttered nervously in his chest but he licked tentatively at the tip, salt and bitterness blooming over his tongue and making him wince. He opened his mouth to take it in his mouth—

“So hasty,” Armitage drawled, looking amused. “Amuse me a little, Ben. Use that sharp tongue of yours.”

Ben tentatively licked at the underside of Armitage’s cock, feeling it warm and smooth under his tongue, slimmer than his own. Now that it loomed so close to his face, Ben could hardly fathom how Armitage took his own cock in any bodily cavity, let alone his throat. He suckled at the tip, awash with hot shame, feeling like a wanton whore as he laved his tongue over it the way Armitage had for him.

“Very good, darling,” Armitage said, a little less composedly than before. “Now a bit more. Don’t be too eager, I won’t have you vomiting on me like a silly virgin.”

Ben obediently pushed his lips over his teeth and opened his mouth wide enough to let Armitage in, his jaw aching profoundly. His tongue felt trapped by the warm, foreign intrusion nudging softly against the back of the roof of his mouth. Then he tightened his lips as much as he could and sucked, squeezing his eyes shut to focus on being as good as he could, moving his tongue clumsily as much as he could muster. He tried to ignore the pinprick pain of Armitage’s grip on his hair and the aching of his jaw but could feel his eyes watering. Dimly he could hear Armitage’s soft, pleased noises, the gentle press forward of his hips.

“Yes, Ben,” Armitage gasped out, between quick breaths. “Ahh, fuck, you’re such a sweet little thing.”

There was an agonizing tug on Ben’s head and Ben spluttered as Armitage forced him further down, his cock jutting against the back of Ben’s mouth, breaching his throat and cutting off his air. Ben reared back in terror as his whole chest and throat bucked in protest, but Armitage’s grip was too firm. His hips thrust forward and Ben felt the whole thing slide into his throat, forcing it painfully wide; he felt split open and stuffed full, almost as intense and painful and perversely satisfying as being fucked the other way.

Armitage let him pull up just slightly and Ben gasped for air, hips jerking uselessly for anything to rub against. Smirking Armitage toed a stray, fat pillow between his legs and Ben pressed into it gratefully, thrusting against it like an animal in heat.

Then Armitage pulled him down again and Ben felt his throat expand and pulse, so unnatural, and Armitage moaned and moaned and Ben thrust savagely against the pillow, jaw aching so profoundly his entire head seemed to be driven through with nails.

Then heat burst behind his eyes and Ben choked, tearing from Armitage’s grasp and coughing out Armitage’s come onto his bedsheets, feeling the awful tickle of liquid in his lungs. Tears spilled out over Ben’s cheeks and he felt himself collapse onto the mattress, feeling wretched and sated. The bitter, salty taste coated his mouth like soap when Lady Organa caught him cursing.

“Oh, darling,” Armitage said in a velvety voice. “You poor little thing, all red in the face. I promise you’ll get used to it. It’s great fun when you’ve mastered it.” A hand curled around Ben’s ass and a thumb pressed over his entrance through his breeches, making his hips jerk. “What would you like, petdarling? Your poor, silly cock needs something, it’s not hard to tell. Would you like me to use my mouth, show how it’s done properly?”

“Yes,” Ben said wretchedly. “Yes, please.”

Gentle hands pushed him over onto his back and Armitage crawled coyly between Ben’s legs, propping himself up with his good arm and mouthing Ben’s breeches open with nothing but his teeth. Ben whined and arched into the mattress, clutching at the sheets and pillows above him.

Armitage bit gently at the skin around the base of Ben’s cock, causing Ben to shout in confused pain and pleasure and strain even more to attention. Then he sucked sweetly at the same bites, mouthing into Ben’s thighs until Ben thought he could see bruises blooming, engrossed in Armitage’s patient work. His hair fell around his head in sheets, trailing over Ben’s abdomen and legs like smooth, tantalizing touches.

Then the tip of his tongue teased over the slit of Ben’s cock where come already leaked down the shaft and Ben groaned as if in the grip of the most hideous torture. Then Armitage took just the head in his lips and did the most awful, amazing things until Ben begged and writhed in his grip, pinned on the knife’s edge of orgasm but helpless to topple himself off the precipice.

“Do you like that, Ben?” Armitage asked sweetly, as if unaware of the torture he subjected Ben to. Then he bent his head as if in prayer and pushed Ben smoothly into his mouth, hardly stopping or pausing until his stretched lips nearly touched the base of Ben’s cock.

Then his throat began to  _ move,  _ pulsing around Ben and sending the most filthy vibrations down Ben’s spine as he  _ moaned— _

Ben came with a tortured, broken cry and Armitage swallowed around him, bobbing easily until he pulled off Ben’s cock with a slick, filthy sound. His lips were swollen and slicked with spit but he looked positively radiant.

He pressed a kiss to Ben’s hipbone. “There you are, darling,” he said. “Now once you’ve cleaned up would you be a dear and fetch my books? I’ve a spot of work I need to do before sunset.”

  
  
  
  


Near midnight Ben dozed in the candlelight, blearily watching Armitage hunched and scribbling at his side. Rope bit into his wrists as he lay face first on the bed, entirely unclothed, his legs splayed wide. Moonlight pooled like liquid on the sheets and on the floor, under the hollows of Armitage’s cheeks. Rain splattered at the windows and occasionally lightning paled over Armitage’s skin.

Armitage caught him staring and tickled his nose with the tip of his quill. “You look lovely, Ben, darling,” he said, not a trace of mocking in his voice. “Are you pining away without my attention even after a few moments?”

“More like a few hours,” Ben said, without any real ire. He felt utterly adrift on the moonlit seas, calm and without any will of his own. He felt he would have gladly consented to anything Armitage asked of him, so utterly at peace without a wind or direction.

Armitage patted his shoulder. “Patience, dovearling. I promise I would love nothing more than to give my attention to my pretty knight than these plagued accounts.”

Ben hummed along in docile agreement. Armitage gave his bare ass a playful pinch and returned to his accounts, brow furrowed in concentration. Some hours more passed, entire days and nights, and Ben drifted, awaiting Armitage’s command.

A howl knifed through the calm and Armitage startled, throwing down his quill and shoving aside his books to scramble off the bed and to the window. Seconds later more horns bellowed and then the great church bell boomed, deep and sonorous.

Ben stirred sluggishly, trying to push himself up with his tethered arms. “What’s...wrong?”

“The alarm,” Armitage said hurriedly, throwing a cloak hurriedly over his shoulders and crying out as his arm lifted too high for his injured shoulder to bear. “Dress and meet me in the courtyard, quickly.”

Ben struggled in his bonds for a few moments, the rope chafing the skin of his wrists. The pain sharpened his wits and within seconds he’d burned them on a nearby candle, tearing himself free. His wrists were stripped of skin and ached terribly but he threw on his shirtsleeves and breaches, struggling into his boots and jerkin as he ran down the corridors and stairs until he’d reached the heavy oaken doors. Outside, servants ran about anxiously, calling to each other in a hubbub of frightened chaos.

He found Armitage in the courtyard barking out orders, torch in his good hand and the other at his side. Rain had plastered his hair to his face and it was dreadfully cold; Ben could not help but shiver.

“There you are,” Armitage said. Ben noticed the shadowy riders and felt himself shudder. “There’s been a raid at a village on the outskirts of the fief. Our horses will be prepared shortly, we ride immediately. And here’s this,” he added, and pressed a leather-wrapped sword into Ben’s hands.

Ben unwound the belt from the scabbard and immediately felt the weight of his own weapon in his hand, satisfying and true. Quickly he bound it over his hips then ran for the stables, throwing an arm over his head to shield him from the pelting rain.

“Hurry!” he shouted at Matthew. “We haven’t time for full dress, tack them all and we’ll be off.”

Matthew glowered at him through his work but did not protest, securing Matilda’s saddle with quick, practiced movements. Ben seized Esperanza’s tack and threw it over her himself, securing the halter and reins and saddle with fevered urgency. Then he leapt onto her back and urged her into motion, galloping from the stables as Matthew lead Matilda out to where Armitage waited.

“Follow me!” Ben shouted to the riders as Armitage struggled one-armed onto Matilda’s back, leaving the scowling but fearful Matthew with the torch. To his mild surprise they obeyed, hurtling after him down the main street, hoofbeats like thunder on the cobblestones. Matilda’s ghostly form floated into view next to him and Ben glanced over as the wind and cold tore at his hair and face to see Armitage’s pallid face clenched up in pain, cold fury burning in his eyes.

Ben urged Esperanza to gallop harder and she pulled forward, fairly flying over the drawbridge and thundering over the black plains, the deathly riders fanning out around them. Ben felt alive, burning with black fire and battle lust, his whole body singing with the feel of his sword at his hip and Esperanza’s heaving chest beneath him. The rain lashed at his face, making his skin sting and burn, but the pain only stoked the flames; the cold whipped at him, making him shudder beneath his thin jerkin, but the thrill of battle and the blind fury that someone had  _ attacked  _ sustained him.

They tore through the blackened countryside, a bright conflagration dotting the horizon, a spearhead soaring across the plains. They shot over rickety bridges and ripped through villages, the riders a dark portent like ravens’ wings.

Armitage swore when they reached the fire. Ben immediately saw why: hostile riders careened through the town, setting stores of grain and wood alight. Villagers skidded every which way, screaming in terror. The church itself was collapsing, proud steeple sinking into the thatched roof.

“ _ Salvaje _ .” Ben ripped his sword from his sheath as Armitage shouted orders at the riders. The riders darted towards the granaries, weapons held high. Their haunting horns sounded, shaking the very earth, arrows flying like deadly insects and dropping the invaders like flies.

“Ben! Wait!” Armitage called out, unbound arm extended; Ben ignored him and hefted his sword. He squeezed Esperanza’s sides sharply and she bolted forwards into the fray. An invading rider swung his sword Ben’s way and Ben twisted around to parry, the blow powerful and full of rage, knocking the rider off his mount and into the fire. Hoofbeats and the cries of men sounded all around him, nearly drowned by the roaring of the flames.

Ben yanked Esperanza's reigns towards the dismounted rider’s comrades, giving a shout as they veered his way. An arrow whizzed by him but he scarcely noticed; a savage swing of his sword and a deafening clang. Esperanza reared and Ben threw his weight forward, dodging a blow; he yanked back on her reigns as the mounted invaders slipped up his flank, tugging her around and falling back only to send her skittering behind the nearest attacker. Ben thrust his blade forward and felt his arm and shoulder jar, heat and smoke stinging his face and eyes. He wrenched his blade from the now-dead invader’s shoulder, swinging it around to cleave into another’s neck.

Horses screamed like banshees and Ben caught Esperanza's wild eyes burning with firelight and dumb terror. He pushed a hand roughly down her neck, twisting around at the last moment to avoid a blade that cut down where his torso had been moments before. The blow nicked Esperanza's shoulder and she loosed a terrible keen.

Ben slashed as the attacker recovered from his swing and lay open the horse’s flank; he delivered a second blow as he pulled Esperanza around, thrusting his sword into the man’s back as his horse stumbled and fell. A fierce joy unfurled in Ben’s chest, thrilling through his bones as flames billowed all around him in deadly sheets. Walls of heat buffeted him, searing his face and exposed skin, but he pulled Esperanza around and sent her galloping into the inferno. The riders’ horns bellowed out a horrible dirge and the air smelled of metallic blood and charred death; Ben could scarcely see through the dark smoke and unbearably bright blaze.

Then a figure emerged from the chaos, and Ben’s blood thrilled—instantly he knew he had met his match. He would not risk Esperanza; he dismounted swiftly and delivered a sharp slap to her flank, sending her skittering away from the rising flames. Then he drew his sword again and tilted it forwards—a challenge.

The figure charged and Ben threw himself headlong into the searing heat; their blades met in a blow that jarred Ben’s shoulder through to his bones. The next few were traded more lightly—each taking each other’s measure, probing for weakness. The other was armored, Ben himself only in light clothes, which gave him little practical advantage in terms of maneuverability and the world of disadvantage when it came to weathering blows. Ben’s best chance was to hit hard and hit fast until his adversary could no longer withstand the attack and folded.

For a daring experiment he danced back, raised his blade high over his head, then darted forward and brought the blade crashing down with all the force his body could muster. The armored fighter parried easily, but the blow staggered them—Ben was stronger, if he could last long enough for it to matter. The other gave chase, clearly thinking the same thing, and Ben gave ground easily, watching their patterns of slash and hack, then when his instincts sang  _ right now right now  _ he leapt forwards and swung his blade with all his strength into their side.

They went down, uninjured, and Ben leapt forwards before they could scuttle free, plunging the blade down through a seam in their armor.

The sudden slack to the limbs was unmistakable—the other man was dead. Savage joy raged in Ben like wildfire, the same fire closing around him, the smoke choking his lungs. Ben kicked away the helmet to reveal a man’s face, flaxen hair that was already catching fire.

A bolt whizzed overhead and Ben started, ready to throw himself aside to dodge a hostile crossbow, but instead was greeted by the sight of Matilda floating ghost-like through the scorching heat, the crossbow secured along with the reins in Armitage’s unbound hand.

“Get on, you brave idiot,” Armitage snapped, once he’d drawn to a halt before Ben. Ben stared down at the fallen adversary, as if transfixed. “That’s one of Poyrew’s sons. Once you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. Now get on this horse before I make a dumb carcass of you myself.”

  
  
  
  


Ben settled in the bench, fiddling with the quill in his hands. He’d gotten more ink on his fingers so far than he had on the parchment, and the few words he had written were ugly and blotted, and seemed horribly trite on top of that.

_ Dearest Mother,  _ his letter began.

He was clueless how to proceed from there. The dire excitement of a few nights ago had faded, and Armitage had been locked permanently in his study, allowing not even Ben to bring him food. Only once did he allowed Ben entrance, only to strip rather abruptly and demand Ben sit still enough to fuck him, looking faraway all the while he rode Ben’s cock. Then Ben was unceremoniously banished, his breeches still around his ankles and his cock stiff in his hands.

_ All is well with me here. _

It was true, after a fashion. Ben was allowed to his own devices and even allowed access to his weapons, and he found working a sweat in his exercises with his sword in hand was more rewarding than lounging indoors all hours like an invalid.

_ Lord Hux has afforded me every courtesy, and remains an excellent host, be his methods unusual. There was skirmish on the border of his lands where I was able to return his kindness. I owe any prowess in battle I may possess to the education you afforded me, and trust my service is seen as a token of appreciation from our family as a whole. _

His service. Ben was no longer sure what that service truly encompassed.

_ I pray you, do not fear for the dire words I spoke in my early letters. England is a dreary land and I fear the weather dampened my spirits considerably. Rest assured I have acclimated to the new environment and view my future here with little apprehension. _

Ben watched his ink and lies bled into the parchment, feathering outwards in dark tendrils.

_ I await your reply eagerly. How fares Reyes’ education? I trust she has made progress with Latin and Greek, and her nimble fingers and strong mind have been making short work of embroidery and craftsmanship alike. _

He thought of Reye, her infectious cleverness. He wished she were here, here to mock Ben for his sodden temperament and lack of faith in her wise yet child-like way. He wished for his mother and even his uncle with such strength it ached, a physical void in his chest.

He wondered why no reply had yet come. That thought proved too painful to bear.

_ I must away. I dearly hope you all are in best of health. May the blessings of the Lord be with you, always. _

_ Ben _

  
  
  
  


“Armitage!” Ben pounded the bedroom door, his knuckles smarting with the force of his panic. “Armitage come quickly, men amass outside the gates!”

The door swung open rather abruptly and Armitage’s displeased face appeared seconds later. “I’m quite well aware, Ben, seeing as I hired them.”

Ben halted in his tracks, hand still poised over the wood of the door. “You did?”

“Yes. Bolstering one’s numbers with mercenaries boosts morale while the boorish loyalty of the peasantry keeps them from cutting and running at the first opportunity—combined with the right price if victorious, of course. Do you disagree?”

“I—no,” Ben said, dumbfounded. “But I—I wasn’t aware you’d be mounting an attack or a defense, unless you think Poyrew—“

“Of course you didn’t know, I didn’t tell you,” Armitage said shortly. “Now come in, I have to tell you about your role.”

Ben stumbled inside, the door snapping shut behind him. “What role? In what?”

“The only game that matters,” Armitage said swiftly, as if Ben were an idiot. A sliver of a smile gleamed in his serious mask. “The utter dissolution of our enemies.”

Ben’s heart pounded faster. Lady Organa did not believe in excessive violence towards her enemies, and in Ben’s estimations it had nearly proved their family’s undoing more than once. To finally be permitted to lay waste to all who opposed them made him shiver with anticipation and Ren purr with satisfaction. “Tell me everything.”

Armitage’s eyelashes swept down over his eyes in a gesture imitating contrition. “Yours would be a difficult task, I warn you. And the plan is a daring one.”

“You’ve seen me fight,” Ben retorted. “If you thought me unfit for the task you wouldn’t have chosen me. So tell me.”

Armitage turned away to the window, where the courtyard bustled with activity. His gaze alighted on the candelabra by the window, unlit and burned down to a nub of wax; he touched it, absently. “The siege is the most costly and least effective form of warfare,” he said abruptly. “Men are lost in droves and the prize itself is reduced to tatters.”

His gaze slid Ben’s way. “So how then to capture the prize intact? The answer is deceptively simple. Use the siege as a distraction, then sever the head from within.”

From within. The enormity of the implication of those simple words sent Ben’s mind reeling. “An assassin,” he said, as if it were an accusation.

“A saboteur,” Armitage countered. “It is insufficient to simply kill Poyrew, to end his life. He is the blood in his army’s veins, the courage in their hearts. Face them with his death and chaos will ensue. Once you’ve opened the gates—“

“Kill Poyrew  _ and  _ open the gates? You haven’t even told me how I’m meant to get  _ in  _ to begin with.”

Armitage regarded him coldly. “I thought you were equal to any task.”

“I am!” Ben snapped. “This is no ordinary task, it is a mission of suicide, not to mention impossibility!”

Armitage’s stare was calm, placid. “I didn’t think it like you to balk at a task before even hearing the outline of it.”

Ben huffed angrily. “I’m not.”

“Then let me finish.” Armitage turned back toward the courtyard. “I have a spy who can spirit you inside the castle walls. From there, you will locate Poyrew and his family and kill them, making their death public. Given your habits, I hardly think this will prove too taxing. Then once the people are sufficiently frenzied, make your way to the main gates and release them. Set fire to them if you must, that damage can be contained before it levels the entire city.”

Ben took a deep breath through his nose and pushed it out again. “I don’t know what Poyrew looks like.”

Armitage turned around with a doting smile. “I think that can be easily remedied. One of my favorite Italian painters whom I give patronage just finished a portrait of his family, and she’s due here in....oh, a day or so?”

Ben ground his teeth. “You really plan everything, don’t you? How long have you been plotting this? You can’t hire an army in an hour, let alone organize an attack of this scale. And how did you know I would play assassin for you—you  _ couldn’t  _ know, not until yesterday—“

Warm lips pressed to his nose and nimble fingers worked at his belt. “Shh, Ben darling. Soon you’ll be jumping at your own shadow.”

“I haven’t even said I’ll do it!”

Warmth pressed over his lips, long and chaste. The hand touching him through his breeches was hardly so. “Then say it.”

“I won’t—“ Ben paused to catch his breath, “I won’t be persuaded with seductive charm. I am a Knight—what you suggest is murder.”

“Poyrew attacked my lands,” Armitage replied, nuzzling Ben’s neck with his cheek. “He made an attempt on my life. Is that not grounds for retaliation? Were he some faceless peasant with a single copper piece to his name, you would not hesitate to strike him down for his insolence. Is it his wealth you fear?”

“I fear nothing,” Ben growled, seizing Armitage’s waist and allowing him to twine his fingers in Ben’s hair.

Armitage mouthed open the first few buttons of Ben’s shirtsleeves. “So you’ll take the lives of children but refuse to kill a man in a fight?”

Ben dug his fingers into Armitage’s waist, his teeth setting on edge. “Don’t say that.”

“I’ve seen the way you lust in battle,” Armitage breathed. You’re holding yourself back, Ben. You’re afraid of what you’ll do, afraid of what you can do. But I need you—”

“And I should be,” Ben retorted. “A horde of invaders is one thing, but a man’s family—his wife, his daughters—“

Armitage chuckled. “Good thing he only has sons.”

Ben struck him. Not hard, but pink blossomed over his cheekbone. Armitage’s good hand went to his cheekbone, tongue tasting his split lip.

“Will you do it?”

Ben’s resolve and, indeed, his entire soul trembled in his chest. Ren raved at the sight of Armitage’s blood, the prospect of death. “Yes. I will.”

  
  
  
  


“Now Ben, don’t you look lovely?”

Ben glanced tensely into the glass, where Armitage fussed over his hair, of all things. “Yes. If only success in battle balanced on the attractiveness of one’s coiffure, I’d be victorious already.”

Armitage glared his way. “Ben, don’t be dour. Or do you forget that I have the small matter of commanding soldiers to attend to? Tending to you calms me.”

“Soldiers? You mean your peasants wielding sticks?”

“I’ll be sure to pass on that glowing endorsement to boost morale,” Armitage snapped back. “I’m sure they’ll all be raring to give up their miserable lives in service of their lord after hearing your buoying words.”

Ben ignored him. Rage and fear twisted in his stomach so tightly it seemed he could scarcely breathe, and he could hardly fathom whether they were directed at the enemy or himself.

“There,” Armitage said, finishing the last braid with a flourish, fixing Ben’s hair in a knot at the back of his head. “Now your hair won’t get in your eyes while you fight, even if you wear a helm.”

Ben attempted a smile. “My thanks.”

Armitage stroked the crown of his head, then planted a kiss to his forehead. “Stay safe, Ben,” he murmured. “I couldn’t bear if anything were to happen to you.”

“And you,” Ben replied, grasping Armitage’s good hand. It was cold. “Please.”

  
  
  
  


Esperanza’s hooves beat a ragged tattoo over the rain-pelted plains. Drizzle and fog hung over the castle like a witch’s spell, just obscuring its craggy spires. It had been seven days since the siege started, and Armitage had nearly run his army of peasants and mercenaries into the sodden English ground. They huddled in wet tents around dying fires, crouched and despondent. No music or carousing filled the camps, only occasional muttering and clanking of arms, the weary brays of horses.

To be sure, they were under Armitage’s thrall. If nothing else could be said for him as a commander, he at least ruled his men the way he ruled is lands—like iron.

“Nothing on our left flank,” Ben called when he’d reached him. He was perched on Matilda’s back surrounded by his riders, dark smears on the English countryside. “Whatever magic flames you sent their way last night have the enemy occupied, for now.”

Armitage fixed Ben with an impatient look. “It is Greek fire, Ben. Not magic.”

Ben grit his teeth, willing himself to be still. “The mercenary commander demands to speak with you.”

“Tell her I will speak with her when not otherwise occupied.”

“She was insistent.”  _ Insistent  _ was an understatement. She’d still been shouting coarse words and swinging at Ben’s head when he’d leapt onto Esperanza’s back and blessedly left her in his wake.

Armitage made a terse  _ tch  _ noise and shook his head. “Tell her if she had objected to her payment she wouldn’t have come in the first place. The rest is won by  _ patience,  _ and the rest is a pretty sum indeed.”

“ _ You  _ tell her,” Ben grumbled. “Or send one of your minions. I won’t be speaking to that impossible scum-rouser again.”

Armitage waved a gloved hand dismissively. “Do you hear that, Ben?”

Ben frowned, listening attentively. He heard the singing sounds of sharpening blades, the crackling of weak flames, the stamping of horses. He heard Esperanza’s soft breathing and the muttering of the soldiers. He heard a faint roar behind the city gates, as if some many-headed monster reared within.

“That is starvation,” he said softly, his voice like the velvet of his doublet. “I obtained measures of their stores before our attack and from the number of people inside those walls, they have run short of grain over two days ago. You’ve gone so long without food, you know that hunger. The water all poisoned, too. Those walls were once a fortress. Now they’re a cage.”

Ben shivered, thrown back into the cage in the dungeon, the cold, the thirst, the hunger. He thought of the rotted cattle thrown over the walls and of the rot underfoot, the rot that sank into his skin and the hunger that tore him from inside out.

“Ripe for the picking, I should say,” Armitage finished, the way one might remark on a comely piece of fruit. “Are you ready, Ben?”

Ben thrust away the memory of the dungeon, banishing the chill in his bones. “Yes.”

Armitage nodded, slightly. “Maisie, all is prepared?”

“Aye, sir,” a girl’s voice said. “The passage is secure.”

“Excellent,” Armitage replied shortly. Matilda took an uneasy step back and revealed a young girl with dark brown skin, unruly hair, and a set to her jaw and a cold glint in her eye. By her tattered garb she was an orphan who ran the streets.

“This is your spy?” Ben said in disbelief. “A child?”

The spy’s dark eyes flicked up and down Ben and Esperanza. “This ‘ere is your knight? You didn’t say he were a Spaniard.”

Ben glowered. “I see a business woman of keen observation knows no age. Keep your sharp tongue to yourself and I’ll keep mine to English.”

“Aye, Sir Spaniard.”

Armitage handed her a purse, which she quickly tied to her tattered belt. “As we agreed now, and the rest when you deliver my knight unharmed.”

“Aye, Lord Armitage.” To Ben, she said, “You’ll wannae dismount, we’ll on foot from ‘ere.”

Ben swung off Esperanza’s back, allowing Armitage to take the reins. He secured his belt and tightened his greaves, trying to ignore Armitage’s eyes on his back.

Ben secured his belt, watching an aide lead Esperanza toward the camp with unease. “Lead the way.”

  
  
  
  


“There’s no wall guard ‘ere,” Maisie told Ben in an undertone, pulling off her oversized black rough-woven shawl and throwing it to Ben. “Put that on, we’ll out into the old merchant’s quarter and they don’ like strangers, ‘specially now that e’ryone is gnawing each others’ bones for a stew.”

Ben obediently wrapped the shawl over his head and shoulders, allowing Maisie to snatch his wrist in tight grip and tug him along until they came upon a roughly-hewn hole in the stones.

Maisie looked from him to the hole and back, eyes wide.

“It’s too small,” Ben said aloud, voicing both their thoughts. He crouched down and indeed, the tunnel was wide and tall enough only for a large child. His heart hammered in his chest, liable to burst free any moment.

Maisie loosed a foul oath. “It’s not me fault yer bleedin’ enormous,” she snapped. “What d’you need them arms for, blockin’ the bleedin’ town gates?”

“Quiet,” Ben said. “Go through first. I’ll lay down and you pull me through by my arms.”

“Are you mad?”

“Our ward and I played such games—it doesn’t matter. Do as I say, we can’t afford a guard passing by.”

Maisie complied without argument, scuttling through the tunnel and pushing aside a thick woven wagon cover and extending her arms from the other side. “Hurry.”

“I  _ am  _ hurrying.”

She shot him a glare fashioned like daggers. “There’s a foot soldier in the alley and if ‘e spots us I cannae kill him wit’out the surprise. He comes our way, and I leave you ‘ere. You got ‘at?”

Ben lay down and extended his arms into the tunnel, tucking his chin down into the shawl and rolling his shoulders inward. For a second he could almost hear Reye’s peals of laughter (“ _ You’re so big, Ben! You’ll never fit!”).  _ Then Maisie grasped his wrists and pulled. The stone rasped against his skin, bruising his shoulders—they’d only ever tried this in dirt, what if he was stuck—?

Then his shoulders were free. Ben pulled his arms free and heaved against the wall, pulling himself out until he could wriggle far enough to pull his legs free. He wiped the blood from his face and pulled the shawl over his head as a hood, obscuring him. Maisie took his wrist, weaving her way through the huddled masses, mounds of blanket and flesh and rot. The smell made Ben’s head weak but he breathed through his mouth and steeled himself, focusing only on the courtyard beyond.

“In normal times we’d go through ‘em granaries,” Maisie said lowly. “But they’re burning since the night, and guarded heavy besides. So we go through the stables. Most ‘em horses ‘ave been slaughtered for meat and ‘em stable boys starve like the rest ‘o us. ‘Em stables round to the kitchens. From ‘ere I cannae help you, I never been inside the castle.”

Ben nodded. The smell of human waste and cries of pain and death had turned his stomach; he felt sick.

Maisie led him up the courtyard, where men tore at each other over not even a scrap of bread and women and children lay dying on the cobblestones, bloated with sickness and hunger. The stables were empty, the hay brown with the blood of horses and cattle. A skeletal donkey lay in one stable, flies buzzing around its diseased eyes.

The kitchens were deserted. Clearly the remaining stores had been relocated to a place harder for the peasantry to storm and seize. Ben halted before the broken doors and pressed his purse into Maisie’s hand.

“Take it,” he said. “And don’t return, for God’s sake. This will be no place for a child, no matter how strong. Leave Armitage’s lands, seek your fortune elsewhere.”

Dark eyes widened. “But Lord Armitage—“

“Forget what he told you. He won’t seek after you, you have my word. Now go.”

Maisie didn’t hesitate. She turned around and scampered back towards the merchant’s quarter, now overrun by sickness and death, and—Ben hoped—to freedom.

Then he turned and made into the castle, hand gripping his sword and heart hardened to stone.

 

 

Ben stole through the shadows, eyes fixed on the flash of flaxen hair. All around him were frantic officials, terrified courtiers, desperate commanders. He was too young for this, Ben knew, maybe a year or so his senior, green to the utter depravity of war and the horrors of the siege.

Poyrew’s second-eldest surviving son. The first had been lost to a hunting accident—some wild animal tore him limb from limb, Armitage had told him with glee. The second was lost to a fire, and the third already to Ben’s hand.

Tragedy, it seemed, had no pity on the man or his sons.

Ben weighed his options. One son out of four was no great odds—the chances of finding the others scattered around the castle was slim at best. He cast about for inspiration, peering around the corridor.

The castle alarm.

Ben cast one last look over his shoulder, then stole to the bell tower, flying up the stairs two or three at a time. Once he reached the top, dizzied briefly by the height, he seized the thick woven rope and, with all his weight, pulled.

The sound was deafening, sonorous, rattling Ben’s bones and striking his heart. He pulled again, again, again, until he could hear the shouts and clatter of boots on stone. Then he rushed down the tower steps, slinking back into the shadows. Dimly he could hear Poyrew’s son shouting orders, deploying what remained of the garrison to fan out through the halls on the lower levels and calling for his manservant to gather his family in his father’s rooms.

Silent in the shadows, Ben allowed himself a tight grimace.

Once he was done issuing orders, Poyrew’s son turned and headed for the stairs. From the basic scheme of the castle Ben had tormented out of a guard, his direction was towards the elder Poyrew’s chambers—ensuring the safety of his family, no doubt.

Hand on his sword, Ben crept after him, darting from behind one buttress to the next. His steps were silent, whispers on the stone. He’d removed all the clanking and clattering points and buckles from his clothes, and lined his soles with soft fabric.

Then the flaxen-haired man turned. Ben dove for cover, but too late; the man’s hand went to his sword. Ben drew his own, still crimson with a guard’s blood, and the man’s eyes widened, his steps faltering.

Ben swung his sword, pivoting on his foot with his hips to give the upwards arc more power, bringing the blade crashing down on the man’s head. He parried too late, backpedaling wildly as Ben swung again, knocking his blade aside and planting his boot in his chest, sending him stumbling, spilling out onto the floor.

Ben was on him in an instant, boot crushing his chest and blade at his throat. “Where are your father’s chambers?”

Poyrew’s son’s face was a caricature of fear. “Why would you think I would ever tell you such a thing?” he cried. “What are you, an assassin? Sent by the Hux bastard, no doubt. Your soul is as cursed as your miserable, coin-grubbing life—“

Ben dropped to one knee, drawing his knife. He drove it into the flaxen haired man’s stomach, covering his mouth with the other as he screamed. Then he yanked it upwards, inch by inch, each jerk of the knife ripping into the man’s body until Ben reached his ribs.

“Where are your father’s chambers?”

Muffled sounds; he released the man’s mouth.

“Go—“ blood bubbled over his chin. “Go to hell.”

Ben wrenched the blade free and drove it in a shallow thrust into the man’s right eye. His scream was loud, piercing, and choked. Blood streamed over his face, over Ben’s hands, hot and dark. Ben shook him, growling, twisted the blade as he pulled it free. He raised the knife over the other eye—

“Up,” the man gasped, and spat a mouthful of blood. “The devil take you—up, across—the crest—“

Ben heard distant shouts, the clamor of armor on stone. He drove his blade into the hollow of the man’s throat, then pushed himself up and ran, flying up the stairs until there were no more. Down the hall until he saw it—the crest, huge and proud, and the door. Heavy, wood. Ben could never break it.

He took a deep breath and knocked, fast and hard.

The door flew open. “We heard the alarm—what is happening—?”

A scream; Ben brought his blade down on the boy’s shoulder, rending it in two. He crumpled and Ben drove the blade into his chest, jerking it free and driving it with all his strength into the eldest son’s throat as he reached for his sword.

A lash of pain tore across his face; Ben swung and cut down Poyrew’s wife, knocking the knife from her hand. She was old but had more strength than her sons; even with the wound in her side she struggled to rise again. Red descended on Ben’s vision, blurred and jumbled like a nightmare. Screams tore at him and he stumbled, grabbing a boy no older than Maisie— _ Reyes _ —and cutting his throat with his knife.

The old man was in his bed. Ben ripped aside the heavy hangings, ornate—more  _ screaming— _ and dragged the knife across his throat.

A flash of white; Ben spun around, near-blind with blood and pain. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, crying out at the searing pain, his face rent in two. Gold hair, long—Armitage’s lips, pale skin, begging. Ben marveled at the snowy chest, gripped the long column of the throat.

Then he drove his blade down, spearing the snowy chest. Blood poured from Armitage’s lips; Ben touched them, fascinated. Poyrew’s mistress fell away from his blade and at his feet.

Still, the screaming. It rent bloody furrows in Ben’s mind. Blind with pain, he stumbled to the window—a cradle, the wailing. Ben grabbed at it, willed it to be quiet, begged it, incoherent; finally, it was still.

  
  


 

Ben hauled the bag of bread to the window, dragging the second, bloody bag in its wake. He’d noted it in a nearby corridor—some servant trying to amass food, no doubt. One by one, he threw the loaves into the courtyard below. The first one hit the stones and instantly a seething mass of human bodies formed, frothing madly. Ben threw more and more until it seemed the whole city had poured in there in one mad fray and the bag was empty, pausing to watch as man tore at man and stomped on his neighbor’s body, a teeming mass of human cockroaches.

Then he heaved up the second bag onto the ledge and threw the first flaxen head.

Chaos. Screams, cries, terror, horror. By the sixth and final head, the courtyard was frozen silent. Hundreds of eyes fixed unblinkingly on the precipice where Ben stood.

He said, no more loudly than if he were a man of God addressing his flock, “Open the gates if you want to live.”

  
  


 

“Ben? Ben!”

Armitage himself appeared moments later, looking vexed. “What are you still doing here? I came as soon as they found you—what happened?”

The last was as he rounded the corner into Poyrew’s chambers, coming to an abrupt halt. Ben’s heart sped in terror. What if he saw the scene of death before him and, like the rest of them, found himself afraid? Repulsed, even, by the abominable monster that Ben was? Armitage had been the only one who was never afraid. Ben could not lose that now. He could not.

“Why, it’s a baby,” Armitage breathed, sweeping to the cradle by the window and lifting the child like it were a priceless chalice or the babe Christ Himself. “Ben, it’s a baby—a little girl. My little girl. We could raise her, Ben, raise her like a spoiled princess, a cruel, beautiful queen.”

“It’s dead,” Ben said.

Armitage’s eyes widened just slightly and the fear coiled more tightly in Ben’s twisting guts. Some indescribable emotion flickered over his face, and Ben resolved to strike him down like all the others if he balked, balked now when Ben did as he asked—

“Oh,” was all he said. His recovery was near immediate; the baby was dropped in its cradle, discarded. “Ben, darling, you’re hurt. Your face, again, you little brute. Promise me you’ll learn to block errant blades, I’m very attached to your face as it is.”

He ripped a strip from Poyrew’s bedding, pressing it to Ben’s face. Ben hissed as the wound pulsated with pain and heat. Armitage held the fabric there, curling a stray piece of Ben’s hair around his finger.

“Quite the mess you made,” Armitage chided, looking about the room. “I had hoped to redecorate tomorrow, but it seems some cleaning may be in order first.”

“Stop,” Ben growled.

“Stop what?” Armitage’s voice took on a petulant edge. “Ben, this castle—gaudy as it may be—is ours. Why should I wring my hands and wet my eyes over my own victory?”

“Because of the cost,” Ben snapped.

“The cost? Don’t be childish. Do you really think Poyrew didn’t seize these lands in exactly the same way? His predecessors’ bodies are buried somewhere on these grounds, and if you don’t think he wouldn’t have done the same with ours you are a fool. That is, if he bothered with a burial. There are rumors when he was young the old man would have his enemies’ bodies hung out on the walls to be picked apart by birds. Does that sound like one you would pity?”

Ben looked away. “I suppose not.”

Armitage pressed a chaste kiss to Ben’s lips, then his cheek, his bloodied hands. “You worry too much,” he said softly. “Let me worry, Ben.”

Gently, he pulled Ben to his feet, guiding him to the window. Night was rapidly approaching and a hot breeze rustled Armitage’s hair from the flames below. The city was on fire, bleeding with riot and plundering. Ben was reminded of Troy, of Priam and his sons—the thought was too much.

Armitage nestled his head on Ben’s shoulder, twining his fingers with Ben’s filthy ones, and to his surprise Ben felt something like peace.

  
  


 

The next day, neither Ben nor Armitage knew any rest. From the crack of dawn Armitage busied himself sending out emissaries to announce to Poyrew’s villagers they answered to a new lord, overseeing the departure of one of the bands of mercenaries laden down with plunder, mediating disputes between his peasants and the rough soldiers. He ordered the towns be cleaned, the diseased dispatched, clean water brought in from afar, the streets washed of blood and rot with the poisoned wells.

He and Ben summoned the guards and servants of the castle and killed or sent off with the riders those who would not swear the oath to their new masters. Those of Armitage’s peasant army who wished to stay in the new city were given leave to fetch their families or allowed small plots of land to farm and keep the excess products that did not go their lord. Those who did not were sent home with all the spoils they had gathered in the razing of the city.

That night neither of them had the mind to do anything but sleep.

The next morning the cleansing of the city began in earnest. In a day the bodies were carted from the city walls, food brought in from elsewhere in the land, the remaining people sated.

Walking among them Ben heard the peasants already glorying about war, bragging to their comrades of the spoils they’d kept. The atmosphere was one of relief, delight, even: Poyrew’s subjects who swore an oath to Armitage’s new order were compensated for the loss of their meager belongings from Poyrew’s coffers.

The bulk of Poyrew’s wealth was not, of course, in the hands of the mercenaries or the peasants, no matter how richly they felt they had been compensated. It was locked deep in the vaults of the castle, which Armitage had shrewdly ordered locked down and fortified before the looting had begun in earnest.

“Really,” he said to Ben, when he remarked on this foresight. “If they had laid hands on any real wealth, they would have spent it all on whores and drink in a fortnight, and likely gotten themselves robbed or drank themselves to death in the process. No, looting is for the peasants to bear. The real spoils are left to those who will do something of consequence with them.”

Lady Organa would have surely taken great and livid exception to this, but she was not there to hear.

Within a week the city was returned to a semblance order. Within three more the Hux colours streamed from every rampart, the castle decked in splendid gold and crimson, gold and food of every description delivered from all corners of the lands, each vassal more eager than the last to please their new lord.

And pleased he was.

There was but one blight on this otherwise perfect victory: the last band of mercenaries.

“They’re gobbling up food and drink faster than an entire fief,” Armitage snarled. “And the leader is impudent beyond belief. She demands full access to our coffers if she is to  _ consider  _ leaving.”

“You have a full army at the ready,” Ben pointed out. “Growing every day with fresh conscripts seeking brighter fortunes. Mercenaries or no, they aren’t enough to withstand that many men.”

“I won’t waste their lives on these rogues,” Armitage said coolly. “Doing so would be an admission of weakness, besides. No, something must be done. Preferably before they terrorize all the serving girls in the fief. They’re a menace, Ben. They cannot be tolerated.”

  
  


 

“Up my back, Ben. Yes, like that. Yes, ah,  _ yes—“ _

Ben obediently trailed kisses up Armitage’s spine, holding his hips as his back twisted and flexed, writhing contentedly against the sheets. His skin was soft and dewy, and his shuddering sighs and groans when Ben successfully carried out his orders were sweet pleasures.

Armitage took Ben’s hand and pushed it to his chest; Ben complied and stroked the small, soft nubs. Armitage gasped, arched against Ben’s shoulders.

“You’re hard,” Armitage said in a wry, impish way.

Ben had been hard a long while, but did not say so.

“Rut against me,” Armitage ordered. “I want to feel how hard you are for me.”

Ben complied without argument, thrusting his hips against Armitage’s bare arse. His cock strained in his breeches and ached for release but Armitage had not allowed him to undress or to come, so he did neither. He ground desperately, so close but burning with frustration, grunting like an animal.

“Sit up,” Armitage gasped. He sounded as if speech were nearly beyond him.

Ben obeyed, pushing himself up and onto his knees, sitting down so that Armitage could settle himself as he liked. Armitage slithered upright, chest and face flushed quite pink, pretty nipples almost red. He pressed his lips to Ben’s and let Ben bite, teasing Ben’s tongue with his own. He unbuttoned Ben’s breeches, gripping where they tented until Ben groaned.

He fetched the new jar of fats from the pillow and smeared it up Ben’s length, though there was already some left. Then he shifted around so his back was again facing Ben—Ben marveled at the delicate shoulder blades, the soft knobs of his spine—and folded his legs around Ben’s.

With practiced familiarity Ben took his slender wrists and pinned them to the bed, so that Armitage’s back arched and his chin tipped back to reveal the pale expanse of his throat. Then he canted his hips and they merged, Armitage trembling and giving shallow gasps as Ben grit his teeth not to cry out or spill before the command.

Ben had quickly learned that Armitage’s penchant for torment extended not only to sex but to himself. He’d allowed Ben release a few times through the ordeal but never himself, pushing himself to that precipice but never over. Now he worked himself slowly towards it, pushing himself only so far on Ben’s cock, hovering over that spot for what felt like hours, languidly tormenting Ben and himself both until they both shook and gasped with exertion.

Then he sank down with a tortured groan, moaning and moaning.

“Now,” Armitage breathed, arching mindlessly against Ben’s chest. Ben thrust his hips shallowly, grateful as a wave of relief swept through him before a storm of pleasure crashed over him.

Ben collapsed back and tucked Armitage to his chest, heaving with effort. He rolled onto his side, allowing Armitage to drag Ben’s arm beneath his head as a pillow, bending it at the elbow so he could play with Ben’s fingers.

“Good boy, Ben,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Ben’s knuckles before slipping his first finger into his mouth. Ben stroked his other hand lightly over Armitage’s bandaged shoulder, kissing his neck. He shifted his hips back, only for Armitage to whimper his disapproval.

They lay there for what felt like hours. Armitage dozed off, lazy as a fat cat, and Ben touched the spun fire of his hair, watched the slow rise and fall of his chest.

The door banged open and Ben’s knife was in his hand in an instant. Armitage stirred and Ben tucked him under him and pushed himself to his knees in a single motion.

“The wine’s out,” the mercenary announced.

Armitage rolled over, holding a sheet vaguely to his chest. “A tragedy, I’m sure.”

She started forward and Ben growled out a warning. “Down, puppy,” she said shortly. “Your master and I have to talk.”

Ben did not lower the knife, but allowed her to come near. Armitage arranged himself on the pillows so that he could face her without expending any effort. Up close he could tell she was more than hot fire and coarse filth: her light brown skin and weathered face was lined with age and her dark eyes held tempered steel.

“Speak,” Armitage said, his voice velvety.

“My men want more wine.”

Armitage yawned, covering his mouth with a delicate hand. “That is unfortunate. There is no more.”

The mercenary laughed. “You must think me such a fool. I know there is, and where it is. You will fetch it for us, as our host.” She took Armitage’s chin and tipped his face upwards so that their gazes met. “My men think you’d look fetching in a barmaid’s dress.”

Armitage offered a placid smile. “If you supply such a dress, I’ll supply the wine.”

“You could be rid of us easily,” she told him. “You know what I ask. Bring me there now, and we shall seek our fortunes elsewhere tonight.”

“So direct,” Armitage murmured. “Very well, you shall have what you demand. But Ben here accompanies us both. That seems fair, no? I couldn’t possibly resist you alone.” As if to somehow accentuate his point, Armitage brushed his hair over his slim shoulder.

“Very well. But you remain unarmed.”

Armitage gave a kittenish stretch before fetching one of Ben’s few white shirts from the foot of the bed and putting it on. It was laughably large on him, especially in the shoulder, but the way the hem fell more than made up for it. “Where would I possibly hide a weapon?”

The mercenary wasn’t amused. Armitage slipped off the bed, stepping into a thin pair of breeches and taking a candle from the side table and beckoning them both to follow. Ben shivered as they descended and wondered how Armitage was not freezing, then recalled he had ample practice from home.

“Is it close?”

“Very,” Armitage said lightly. “Ben, the key?”

Ben obediently procured the ring of keys from his belt. Armitage accepted them and selected one, pushing open the door and ushering Ben and then the mercenary inside.

She turned on him instantly. “This isn’t the vault.”

“The wine cellar,” Armitage said with labored innocence. “Is that not what you wanted?”

She raised the knife—

Ben drove his own towards her back. Seconds later he was pinned empty-handed against the cellar wall, the mercenary’s blade to his throat.

“Did you really think I was such a fool?” she demanded. “Forgetting my back the second you play your little tricks?”

Ben growled wordlessly. He could feel blood trickling down his neck. His belt was empty—he would have to strike a debilitating blow with only his hands before she could kill him, or else—

“I wondered which would strike first, the dumb guard dog or its snake master,” she hissed. “Now you’ll give me the vault key or your dire excuse for a knight can sing love songs out of his throat.”

Before Ben could wonder which Armitage would choose—himself, or Poyrew’s riches—the mercenary grunted as Armitage drove his own blade into her back, up to the hilt. Ben knocked her knife aside as Armitage pulled the blade free, freckling his face in blood, then stabbed again and once more until she was dead.

Without stopping Armitage seized a nearby full skin of wine and strode for the door, leaving Ben to lock the door and scramble in his wake. He stormed up the stairs and into the great hall, where the rabble shouted and mocked the terrified servants holding empty wineskins, bellowing like drunkards.

Armitage slammed down the wineskin on the table. Jeers and shouts rang around him, some complaining one was not nearly enough and others complimenting the server’s looks. He tore the skin open and grabbed the second-in-command’s goblet, and then his head, seizing it in both hands and forcing it into the wine. The man spluttered and struggled, but his drunk resistance was no match for Armitage’s strength and fury. The others shouted and rushed to their leader’s aid but most were too drunk to stand and the few that were could do nothing to pry Armitage from his victim.

Then, once he was still, Armitage released him, allowing him to fall back onto the floor. He was dead. The most cogent mercenary struggling to release his blade had the empty goblet smashed into his face, and collapsed.

“Your leaders are dead,” Armitage announced, no less regal for standing in underclothes covered in blood and wine. You now take orders from me. Anyone who resists will be killed by my men.” He showed his teeth. “Or myself, if I feel less merciful. Is that understood?”

Though drunk, all present managed some sort of affirmative.

“Excellent,” Armitage said shortly. “I expect you all sober tomorrow, and ready to fight the day after that.”

 

 

Armitage made good on his promise—or threat—to do battle in a  fortnight , as within a day he had amassed his new forces and within a week they had laid siege to a new city. It was smaller and far less fortified than Poyrew’s had been, and caved far more easily. After slaying the incumbent lord in his council hall, his successor was understandably keen to swear fealty to Armitage’s name.

By the third city they sieged, word had spread and their numbers had increased yet again, and the lord opened the city gates within a day. He begged the honor to be Armitage’s vassal, and after a few hours of torment, was graciously allowed.

With a heavy heart Ben watched, and participated, as leaving each city he knew that within a year or two they would all be as the village Ben came upon on his arrival to England—bleak, in the grip of terror. Already Armitage levied heavy taxes on his new fief, taxes to rival a king’s. When asked what use could possibly demand such funds, Armitage gave him a sly smile and patted his hand or kissed his cheek.

It was only when the infernal rain gave way to snow that Ben realized how many long months it had been since they set forth from the castle, with nothing but a ragtag team of peasants and thieves. It was only when late one night, hunched over a stack of books doubled in size Armitage asked Ben if he preferred roast duck or pork for his dinner that Ben realized Christmas Mass was nearly upon them.

Ben had not touched a Bible in weeks, a month, even. So occupied with his sword, his armor, the men, the fief, he had barely given time even for prayer. The guilt struck him through so profoundly he collapsed where he stood.

Armitage dismissed it as exhaustion, and indeed even he in his infinite will for battle he too looked more pale and sickly than before. His shoulder had never truly healed and pained him often. Even their band of peasants were becoming dissatisfied, glutted on spoils as they were.

“They miss their wives and families,” Armitage remarked, one evening when he tended his books and Ben mended his leather jerkin. “All peasants, even the warriors among them, are farmers and beastly family men at heart.”

“They are restless,” Ben agreed. “What shall we do with them? We can hardly return them to the slums they came from. They would become unruly and overthrow your vassals in weeks.”

“Poyrew had much unfarmed land,” Armitage replied as he scrawled out his signature on and applied his family’s seal to one of his vassal’s proposals. “I assume he meant to cultivate it at some point, but became too ill and his sons too inept. To each man I will give a parcel of land to farm and keep the excess, and to each man who served myself or my father through the years I will give the land subject only to tax.”

“Generous,” Ben remarked. “I suppose you had this plan from the start?”

“Prudent.” Armitage corrected idly. “As you said, idle peasants breed insurrection, and I hardly have the time to deal with such a thing. But yes, I knew any army I amassed would have to be dealt with. A professional standing army is always disastrous, as inevitably they will turn against their leader in pursuit of greater spoils. Why, just take the French as an example. Or the Spanish.”

“Or the English,” Ben added sharply, only for Armitage to shrug.

“Next week, we ride for the farmlands,” Armitage said. “Let them set up camps, start building their houses. See who rises to the top and declare them vassal of a new fief. Then return home.”

Ben nodded, grateful and relieved beyond words. “I’d like that.”

  
  


 

Upon their return, the cheers could be heard from beyond the city gates. Despite the bitter cold, villagers from far and wide had thronged in the snow, shouting and jubilant. Ben could not fathom why but it filled him with pride nonetheless. Armitage on Matilda and himself on Esperanza, side by side, felt right and good. Most of the riders had departed for the far corners of Armitage’s new fief and Ben shuddered to think what they would bring upon their return.

Armitage waved, radiant as ever, smiling down upon his subjects like a benevolent pagan god. Ben attempted to smile or wave but only shook his hand about in an awkward fashion and managed only a sickly grimace.

Once they’d proceeded up the main street and into the town square, Armitage addressed his adoring subjects with a few rhetorical flourishes, then swept inside the castle gates. He did, however, order cheap wine to be brought to the square, and the guard to be doubled.

Matthew approached to take Matilda and Esperanza’s reigns, surly as ever. Ben thought he caught a flash of orange and yellow from within the stables as he handed them over but could not be sure.

“I see you’re well,” he said shortly, then added a few customary seconds late, “my lord.”

“And you also,” Ben replied. “Are the animals well?”

Matthew’s scowl, impossibly, deepened. “As well as they can be with the castle stores reduced to scraps in your absence.”

“Ah.” Ben glanced over Matthew’s shoulder, hoping to spot Armitage in the small crowd that had accumulated.

“My lord,” Matthew said suddenly, “About Declan. Techie.”

“He isn’t unwell, is he?” Ben asked. The winter could be harsh, and Techie was fragile as it was. He caught a flash of Armitage’s hair some feet away over Matilda’s graceful white neck.

“No, nothing like that.” Matthew managed to continue to look surly, even at this news. “I know you favor him. I pray you make sure he comes to no harm. I’m no use to him here outside the castle.”

“Of course,” said Ben. Armitage was mounting the steps, hair swaying over his shoulders, radiant like a triumphant god of war. “Worry not.”

Matthew’s scowl eased, almost visibly. Grudgingly, he said, “You have my thanks. My lord.”

Ben clapped him on the shoulder and, before he could be shaken off, departed to rejoin the crowd. Armitage’s childhood nurse, Mary, was hugging him tearfully; he returned the embrace without emotion. Elizabeth was there, looking sickly, along with a few of the other servants and one or two he did not recognize. They did not look happy to receive their lord’s return.

“Ah, there you are,” Armitage said briskly, once he’d spotted Ben. “Mary, ready my chambers and alert the cook to prepare his best meats. He knows the one. Elizabeth, fetch us something from the cellar and perhaps a bite to eat before dinner. We’ll take it in the tea room. Jonathan, have our things taken to my chambers, quickly now.”

The servants scurried away to carry out Armitage’s orders. Armitage took Ben’s arm in his own and made for his chambers.

“I think I’ll need to rest before—“ Ben protested.

Armitage offered him a lascivious grin. “I was going to change, Ben,” he said. “These clothes are dirty and I won’t be a beast in my own home. Unless, of course, you would prefer—what are you doing here?”

“A-Armitage,” Techie stammered. Even with the bandage over his eyes, he still managed to look like a deer frozen in a hunter’s sight.

“Declan,” Armitage said coldly.

“I—I’m, uh, I’m uh, I’m s-sorry, I, uh, I came in here uh, sometimes while you were g-gone, I’m uh, I’m so uh s-sorry, I won’t uh, I won’t d-do it, uh, uh g-gain—“

To Ben’s surprise, Armitage extended his arms. “Quiet. Come here.”

Techie halted mid-sentence, curling in on himself and if possible looking more fearful. Tentatively, he crept closer, until Armitage’s arms folded around him and pulled him close.

Techie clung to him like a drowning man, burying his face in his brother’s chest and pressing against him as if he were the last source of heat in a world encased in ice. He trembled like one of his rabbits.

“Did you miss me?” Armitage asked softly.

Techie nodded quickly, fervently. “I uh, yes, yes I d-did.”

Armitage stroked his brother’s unkempt hair. “I’m glad,” he said. “Now run along, Ben and I have matters to attend to.”

Techie detached his arms from his brother’s sides, unwilling, but obediently turned and scampered away into the darkness of the castle. Armitage watched him go, an indecipherable expression on his face.

“I thought you hated your brother,” Ben said truthfully.

“Declan? Of course I don’t hate him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, and if he did he’d weep about it for days afterwards.” He somehow managed to make this statement sound embittered.

“Then why didn’t you tell me about him?” Ben demanded. “Weeks of thinking I was going mad—you denied he existed even after you  _ knew  _ I’d seen him—“

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Armitage sniffed. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to dress before Jonathan starts bringing up my things.”

Armitage did not emerge from his chambers until dinner. “My mother sent a letter,” he said as if by way of explanation, as Ben glared at him over what appeared to be roast duck. “She would like to accompany us to Christmas Mass. We are, of course, having her over after for a Christmas feast.”

Ben narrowly avoided choking on a piece of duck. “I would prefer to worship alone.”

Armitage’s eyes narrowed. Ben sensed a storm brewing on the horizons of his temper, and braced himself for it to inevitably hit. He plowed onwards. “Your mother does not care for me much, I think,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Armitage said, chewing daintily on a piece of duck. “Mama adores you. Wipe your chin, you have a spot of sauce on it. No, to the left. Yes, there.”

Ben’s napkin came back without a spot. He set it down and kept his eyes on his food. “Will your brother join us for the feast?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I tire of these questions,” Armitage said. “My mother will join us, and you will enjoy her company as a gentleman, do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” Ben said.

“Good.” Armitage’s temper changed to saccharine. “How is the duck, Ben darling?”

Ben kept his expression neutral. “A bit soft for duck,” he said. “And not quite the right color.”

Armitage’s solicitous expression turned impish. “Indeed,” he said, and took another bite. “Shall we take tea after dinner?”

  
  


 

They hardly made it as far as tea. Armitage was wearing the gold and crimson doublet he had when Ben had first met him, and in the tea room with the fire Ben’s heart sped remembering how he’d wanted him instantly. Armitage eyed him hungrily for moments before pushing him to the carpet, Ben knocked over a vase as he fell and it smashed. Armitage laughed a high, trilling laugh and tore open Ben’s jerkin, opening his shirt and breeches with all haste, almost clumsy, biting bruises down his neck. Ben spread his legs without being asked, eager.

“Oh Ben,” Armitage gasped against Ben’s lips, as Ben’s fingers fumbled against his belt. “Ben, I can hardly stand it.”

“Stand what?” Ben halted momentarily, shot through with a sudden chill of fear.

“What awaits us downstairs,” Armitage breathed, curling his thighs around Ben’s hips, fingers tangling in Ben’s hair, pulling at his scalp. “In the dungeons. The true spoils—our new playthings.”

Awful glee rose unbidden in Ben’s chest, so unholy and forbidden he found himself gasping at the very thought. “You don’t mean—“

“I want you to perform for me,” Armitage continued, almost feverish, roving over Ben’s body with his mouth and letting Ben cut furrows into his back with his fingers. “Play out a beastly symphony like you do on the battlefield, but for me, all for the sake of the act itself. String out torment and screams for me—a lover’s ballad—present me with blood and horror like flowers for a maiden.”

Ben was not sure what had gotten Armitage into such a frenzy of—questionable—poetics, but it stirred his blood nonetheless, even more than Armitage’s fingers curled around his cock. “Yes,” he managed at last. “I want that.”

“Show me how you do it,” Armitage continued, and his eyes shone with a wild, terrible joy. “I want to see it, I’ve never truly seen you kill.”

Ben groaned—to speak of it so openly, so freely, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, not a perversion so wicked it nearly blotted out the sin of laying with a man. “Armitage—“

“I want it now,” Armitage snarled, and he sounded so imperious, so triumphant, Ben could hardly complain when he scrambled off Ben’s body, making hardly an effort to right his disturbed clothes. “Come with me, we’ll go to the dungeons now, while the blood’s high. I’ve such wonderful toys, Ben, I can’t wait for you to try them.”

Ben pulled himself off the floor, making a half-hearted effort to right his breeches, then followed as Armitage all but dragged him down, down to the dungeons, into the dark and cold and terrible, terrible human stench. A torch was already lit—had Armitage been down there somehow before?—and it threw shadows that danced over Armitage’s face, made him look positively wild, like a faerie of lore who fed on the souls of men.

“Here, look,” Armitage said, and spun Ben around. “Look—three cages, all full. Take your pick, Ben—pick your favorite.”

Ben’s heart sped at almost a dizzying rate; he felt as if he might burst or vomit, or perhaps spontaneously combust. “That one,” he said, pointing to a blonde man with a fair complexion. His hair was perhaps to his shoulders, or a bit beyond. “I want that one.”

“Then that one you shall have,” Armitage breathed into his ear, sending shivers down Ben’s spine. “Oh, don’t pity the poor beast, the fate of giving first blood is far preferable to being among the last to perish.”

He wrenched open the metal bars, seizing a fistful of the man’s hair. The man barely struggled; the other prisoners seemed almost not to notice, only staring up at them with dumb, fearful eyes. Ben marveled at them all—they seemed so human, yet so animal. He wondered if he had looked that way after his time here.

“Why, he’s not so ugly,” Armitage remarked. “Dress him up a bit and he would almost look like—well, what’s the bother. It would be like applying rouge to a pig.”

“Where to now, my knight?” Armitage asked. “Chains? Take him to visit the wives? Three stunning Iron Maidens, they’ll charm you for certain. Whips? Oh, but you reserve those for personal use. Brands? Name your instrument, Ben, and you shall have it.”

“The rack,” Ben said. “And a knife.”

“A traditionalist,” Armitage replied, sounding pleased. “I can show you the delights of newfangled things in good time.” He led the man to the rack like a unblemished ram to the altar, already running freely with blood. God glutted Himself on such offerings. A knife found Ben’s hand. He curled around it, feeling its weight in his fingers.

The man was terrified—petrified, in fact. Ben lifted the knife, watching Armitage watch his twitching little spasms, the barely-blinking eyes, the hitched little breaths. Fear. Armitage drank it in like it was an aged vintage, and death the accompanying side, best saved for the last draughts.

Ben trailed a finger along the ridge of the man’s ribs—rough, bumpy, not as fine and soft as Armitage’s. Then he plunged the blade in, deep, wrenched it free. Blood ran over his hands, hot and thick, a choked gurgle escaping the man’s lips—he was not yet dead. Ben pushed it in again, jerked it upwards, up between the ribs until he could go no further.

His father had taught him to gut a deer. It was one of Ben’s few remaining memories of him—if the recollection was even real at all.  _ Stab into the belly, cut up the ribcage, break the chest over the heart. Pull open the ribs—it’s hard, but you’ll get it—here, let me show you. There—the bones will break, but you’ll have reach of the guts. Pull them out—surprised by how much there is? Me too, every time, kid. Yeah, like that. You’re doing great. Good work, Ben. You’re a natural. _

The movements were rote by now, but Ben performed them with passion—not the sobbing ineptitude used on the wench at Devan’s party, but something harder, forged by lust, lust for Armitage and destruction. The ribs made a dreadful crack—a satisfying, visceral noise, Ben thought, and Armitage did not even flinch—and he thrust his hand into the cavity, pulling the insides out by the handful, tearing and ripping at the soft, sensitive flesh.

And then at last he was done, the man finally empty, the knife abandoned in favor of his own instruments—his hands. Underfoot was a mess, a brutal, stinking mess, but the way Ben’s pulse pounded in his throat was nothing short of intoxicating.

“Thank you, Ben,” Armitage said, and pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss to Ben’s lips. “If I may—you have much to learn. But, well—I can’t say it wasn’t pleasurable. But you, darling, you truly need a teacher.”

He raised Ben’s dripping hands to his lips, which parted slowly, and dragged them down Ben’s finger from the knuckle, until it was clean. Then the next, and the next. Ben watched, transfixed, his breath so tight in his chest and his cock deliriously heavy. Armitage’s lips were perfect around his fingers, rosy and red with blood, plump and soft. “If you’ll have me,” Armitage finished, with a smile that brokered no refusal.

“I will,” Ben said.

  
  


 

“Why not Father Greene?” Armitage demanded. He was perched at his vanity, brushing his hair even though Ben had carried out orders to do it moments prior. The delicate swirls of gold framing the mirror haloed his shining head, enshrining him like damned saint.

Ben bit back the urge to grind his teeth and looked up from his Scriptures. “Lack of morality. I would prefer to take Mass from a good Christian man.”

“Lack of morality?” Armitage’s eyes flashed in the mirror. “Father Greene and I have been affiliated for years back.”

“Exactly,” Ben ground out. Echoes of Armitage’s cries through the keyhole in Devan’s castle whispered in his ears. “Must I justify myself to you of all people? You know nothing of matters of God.”

“You’re jealous.” Armitage righted his comely mink-lined cloak over his shoulders. It was white and the collar tickled his cheeks and made him as beautiful as he was cross. “Mama will have the final word. We shall attend whichever church she pleases.”

“Your mother knows even less about God than you do,” Ben snapped.

Ben could barely throw his readings aside before his skull cracked against the headboard of Armitage’s bed, Armitage himself pinning him there with a knee to his chest. He clutched Ben’s jaw with the grip of a blacksmith’s vice, sharp teeth bared like a small tiger’s. Ben spluttered, too surprised to mount a cogent defense.

“I’ve half a mind to break this mirror on your impudent skull,” Armitage snarled, jabbing the edge of his ornate, gold hand mirror into Ben’s throat. Jagged pain forked down Ben’s throat like lightning. “Do not speak of my mother in that way.”

Ben grabbed at Armitage’s wrist. The mirror’s edge dug further into his throat, cutting off his breath. He pulled desperately at Armitage’s hand but his pale face blazed a livid red, his fury lending him seemingly inhuman strength. Ben pushed frantically at Armitage’s chest, desperate to throw him off. His throat ached—he couldn’t breathe—

Armitage let up at what felt like the very last second before Ben slipped through Death’s doors. Ben gasped for breath, collapsing against the headboard and massaging his throat. Armitage loomed over him a moment longer, blazing with almost feral madness. His chest heaved and his narrow nostrils flared, glaring at Ben with such hatred Ben feared he might attack again.

Then he climbed off Ben’s chest and slipped off the bed, settling down in front of the mirror, re-arranging his collar under his doublet. His hair was in disarray, his narrow shoulders rising and falling at a feverish pitch. He had gone from a livid red to chalky pale in mere seconds.

Anger of his own raised in Ben’s chest and he pushed off the bed, throwing his books and papers together in an angry mess. His heart pounded furiously, from the pain, the terror of his vision throwing sparks and fading, and anger. He had hardly said a thing that demanded such an assault, and the injustice of it filled Ben with bitter animosity.

“Bastard,” he spat, as soon as he could breathe enough to speak.

Before Ben could properly react the mirror in Armitage’s hand smashed over his head. Staggering, he reached out blindly for support, the world drowned in a curtain of red. His knee connected with a footstool and he fell to the flagstones. His skull ached and screamed like a living thing; Ben brought his hand to the eye of the maelstrom and it came back wet with blood.

Armitage kicked him onto his back with the toe of his boot, then drove his heel into Ben’s chest. Ben wheezed a gasp of pain, which was ignored. “Not another word from you, you sniveling child,” he snarled. “And don’t come near me until evening, or I’ll have you bound and roasted like a hog.”

Ben attempted a mutinous glare, but only managed to screw his eyes further closed in pain. The chaos in his head made Armitage’s image blotched and blurry above him, swaying and swimming slightly as if a tapestry in a strong breeze.

Evidently satisfied, Armitage gave him one last hard look and spun around on one foot, his cloak swirling out over Ben’s face as he strode away.

For what felt like an eternity Ben lay there, dazed and in agony. Anger and fear churned in him like the depths of some accursed swamp. Armitage could have killed him. He may have  _ wanted  _ to kill him. The thought set Ben’s blood ablaze, Ren’s whispers echoing in his ears.

Then the door latch rattled and he was streaked through with terror, afraid Armitage had returned. A scampering of footsteps, then warm hands on his face, fluttering like frightened moths.

“B-Ben? I-is that you?”

Ben blinked with effort, driving the blood momentarily from his eyes. Techie’s pallid face and wild copper hair swam above him. A chill surged through him and he struggled away from where Techie’s fingers fluttered over his scalp.

“D-did you and Ar-Armitage uh f-fight?” Techie asked, pulling his hands away as if afraid Ben might bite. He sounded terrified, his slender hands shaking so much Ben could see it.

Ben nodded weakly, then realized belatedly the futility of the gesture and managed to rasp out a weak, “Yes.”

“I’ll uh—I’ll uh g-get Matthew, he uh, I can’t really uh h-help you but uh he’ll know what to—but he c-can’t c-come in the c-c-castle. M-Mary—Mary will uh, she’ll uh know what to do, I’ll uh get her now she’s uh she’s r-real g-good don’t worry B-Ben—“

A shaky flurry of motion and Techie had risen unsteadily to his feet, already scuttling shakily for the door.

  
  


 

“I have to.” Ben waved away Mary’s protestations and attempts to push him back into repose. “I cannot have him angry with me, not this long.”

“Lord Armitage’s wrath burns long indeed, my lord,” Mary warned, obediently pulling away, worry and hesitation tight around her eyes. “And if I may, sir, you’re in no fit state to walk down stairs, let alone face another confrontation.”

Ben ignored her concern. “I am a knight,” he said, simply.

It gnawed away at him, a cold, living fear, knowing that Armitage was angry, that he may stay angry. He imagined Armitage disgusted by him, cursing his name. He replayed the scene of their drama countless times in his own mind, anxious and despondent, desperate to see where he’d gone wrong.

Hux was heathenous. He spurned God openly, cared nothing for the Gospels, mocked Ben’s faith at every turn. So too the Lady Madeline seemed to have absolutely no compunction to honor the teachings of Christ. So why was the suggestion that he and she both were no suitable judges of where to take Mass met with such poignant fury?

He thought anxiously of the long siege, the toll of exhaustion, Armitage’s injury from Poyrew’s assassin, which had not yet healed. Perhaps these weighed on Armitage more than Ben had thought. The idea was impossible—pain and weakness slipped over Armitage’s head like water over the back of a dog.

“I uh, I und-derstand, Ben.” This time it was Techie who spoke, with a soft, fluttering touch to Ben’s wrist. “G-go. He c-cares for you, I k-know it.”

He nearly collapsed when he attempted to stand, but Ben eventually managed to venture out of his improvised sickbed—a bedroom for guests that seemed to contain an age’s worth of dust—and hobble down the main staircase. Compared to the bustling activity of Poyrew’s castle it seemed empty, deserted, shadows stretching eerily around corners. No servants were in sight—the place seemed haunted. The light needling across the great landing from the tearoom was the sole illumination. Ben tentatively crept towards it, peering into the sliver of light between the doorway and the door.

“Lord Organa. Kind of you to join us.”

Ben startled, his skull throbbing with pain that threatened to reduce him to the floor. “My lady, my apologies, I did not know you were here—“

“Evidently.” Madeline’s voice was cool and untroubled. “Don’t lurk at the doorstep all evening, either come in and announce yourself properly or leave us.”

Ben’s heart leapt—Armitage was with her. A mounting tension nearing fear rose in his chest like bile. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, trying to ignore the stares of the painted Huxes lining the walls. Madeline’s eyes were hardly so alive, and twice as hard. “My lady,” he said, inclining his head graciously, as his mother had taught. “May I request the pleasure of your and Lord Armitage’s company?”

A sliver of a smile graced Madeline’s pale lips. “Armitage has just nodded off. I gave him something so he might sleep. You upset him terribly.”

Armitage lay lifeless on the couch, pale cheek resting on his mother’s lap. His hair splayed around him like an angel’s. In sleep he looked cherubic, or like the Ganymede of myth. Without animation the impish spirit and demonic cruelty was startlingly absent—Ben wished he could say the same of himself and his own rest. Lady Madeline’s ungloved hand rested in Armitage’s hair, tracing the shell of his delicate ear with a slender fingertip.

“He esteems you highly,” Ben said, unable to tear his eyes away from the shallow tide of Armitage’s chest.

“Of course he does. I am his mother.”

“There is more to motherhood than giving birth,” Ben replied, more harshly than he’d intended. Something about the scene before him, saturated with motherly concern and care, made him sick as if rotten. “Love, for one.”

“And love me he does.” Lady Madeline’s voice was honed to a sharp point. “More than he shall ever love you,  _ Benjamín _ .” She spat his name at him as if it were poison, perfectly accented with the Spanish pronunciation.

Ben’s temper flared, bitter and ugly, and the room seemed to shift around him as if on unsteady ground. The fire burned harshly in his eyes, though it was but embers. “You don’t return that love. You can’t. You’re cold and cruel. You give him nothing—nothing a mother should give, no warmth.”  _ Nothing that I give him.  _ The thought pushed unbidden at Ben’s tongue; he restrained it with effort.

Lady Madeline’s grey eyes flashed like flint struck to iron. “You impudent whelp,” she breathed, narrow nostrils flaring with malice. “And what, pray tell, is it that you give my son, you overgrown Spanish whoreson, other than a body to warm the sheets come nighttime?”

Ben’s breath hitched; he felt dizzy, as if he might crumple at any moment. The floors and walls swayed around him, his skin buzzing strangely. She knew. Of course she knew. Armitage may have even told her himself—told her any manner of things. The thought made him feel ill.

“Gone mute, have you?” Her tone was sharp, as if addressing a servant. “Poor bumbling country boy, not even his own mother wants him. What was it you did to be banished? Force yourself on some serving girl? With looks such as yours it’s no wonder why. If it weren’t for the fact you are the only man on hand with a little more than dirt running through his veins, Armitage would never have given you more than a spare glance.”

Ben’s vision wavered with tears; he could feel his lips trembling. He ached to lash out, curl his hands around Madeline’s slim throat, a throat so like Armitage’s own. Tear at her mocking lips, press out her cold eyes, rip out her unfeeling heart from her narrow chest. Such a monstrous rage kindled in him he felt as though his hatred could blot out the very sun.

“Armitage is mine, Lord Organa,” Madeline said coldly. “I suggest you temper any delusions otherwise.”

“Armitage lied to you,” Ben blurted out, and his voice trembled, trembled as if he were a little boy pinned under Madeline’s cruel thumb. “He lied to you. And he still does.”

“Is that so,” said Madeline, entirely unconcerned, the triumphant curve to her lips never faltering.

“He told you his half-brother is dead,” Ben said, the words spilling out of him rapidly, anything to drive a needle into that calm, collected smirk. “He probably told you he killed him. But that’s a lie. He’s alive, here, sound. Armitage cares for him, despite what he’s told you.”

Madeline was breathing hard, glacial hatred in her fine features. “You lie.”

“Ask any servant you like.” Ben gave her a tight, fierce grimace, stalking a bold step closer. “It hurts, doesn’t it? To know he would be so duplicitous. To know he spat in your face in the same breath he called you mother—“

“Leave.” Madeline spat the words. “Leave now. Before I have you lashed and hung in the stocks.” Her hand pressed hard against Armitage’s cheek, her nails curled against his skin.

“Sleep well, my lady.” With one long, last hard look her way, Ben turned and made for the depths of the castle.

  
  


 

The next morning Ben awoke in his own chambers, the smell of fresh breakfast wafting in the air.

“Excellent morning to you, Lord Organa,” Mary said brightly, bustling about to deliver the laden tray next to him on the bed. “How is your head feeling, my lord? Any pain?”

“Where’s Armitage?” Ben had suffered horrible dreams of the Lady Madeline whispering things about him to Armitage as he slept, some of them false and some of them true. He felt jittery, on edge. “I must speak with him.”

Mary looked over him fretfully. “My lord, I’m not sure if that’s—“

“Just tell me where he is.”

She faltered. “The—the tearoom.”

Ben threw off the covers and dismissed her, struggling into Armitage’s favorite doublet—slim and ornately woven with the crimson and gold of the Hux colors—and the nearest pair of breeches, along with his boots. The doublet collar concealed the bruise stretching around his neck, but a dark shadow was visible under one eye. His head ached at each step but he banished the pain, hurrying down the stairs as quickly as he could take them, rushing headlong down the corridor, past the library—

“Ben! There you are, darling.” Armitage pressed a chaste kiss to Ben’s forehead, then another, less chaste one to his lips. “I’ve been looking all over for you. And of course the blasted servants are no help. We will attend Mass with the bishop himself, I’ve decided. More central to the new lands—I can’t stay here forever, and it will do the vassals good to be reminded of their fealty.”

Over Armitage’s shoulder Ben caught a flash of Lady Madeline’s golden hair and, on instinct, pulled away. By her frigid expression, this angered her more than if he’d made a purposeful show of affection. Ben’s throat tightened, anxiousness making his breath short.

“Armitage darling,” she said, opening and inspecting a cupboard as she rounded the corner, “there are so many little mice in this castle. So many blind little mice, scurrying about in the dark.”

Ben looked—her pointed, blue velvet shoe pinned a mouse’s tail to the flagstones by the toe. “They must be killed,” she said. “Even just one is too many.”

“Of course, Mama,” Armitage said, rushing to his mother’s side. “If you’ll just let me take it, I shall have a servant come to kill it. If you would like to wait outside—“

“Don’t coddle me, Armitage.” Madeline regarded the mouse and her son coldly. “I am more than capable of dispatching of one mouse.”

Before Ben or Armitage could react, she lifted the other foot and brought the heel of her dainty shoe down on the mouse’s tiny body. The crunch of small bones was like the snapping of twigs in the fall; blood seeped into the velvet.

“Oh Mama,” Armitage exclaimed fretfully. “You didn’t have to do that. The state of your shoe—”

“Perhaps we should be readying for Mass,” Ben said quickly. “The carriage—“

“I care nothing for the shoe or Mass,” Madeline announced. “I’ve half a mind to stay behind and hunt for little mice. There is such an infestation.”

“Mama, the servants—“

“More mouse than human. They have too much sympathy for the creatures. I will not.”

Armitage looked perplexed, the expression just barely tinged with fear. “I promised Ben I would take him to Mass. Of course we could attend just the two of us, but you are more than welcome to join.” He put on a softer expression. “I would like you to be with us,  _ Maman, _ ” he said, as if French might mollify her.

Ben glanced at the blood on Madeline’s shoe, feeling giddy and sick. “I too would ask the Lady Madeline join us at worship,” he said, recalling her fury the last night. “Kinship with our earthly mothers is kinship with our Lady Mary.”

“Very well,” Madeline said, retracting her foot abruptly under her skirts. “Armitage, call me when the coach is ready.”

  
  


 

The ride to the cathedral was a silent one, tension crackling in the air like fire scarcely constrained in a hearth. All of Ben’s attempts to catch Armitage’s eye, to read his expression, were met only with false smiles and cool pleasantries. Lady Madeline sat in silence, expression white and frigid, working at her needlepoint. Ben had to confess she was quite talented. Yet her very presence caused him the greatest distress—he had the uncontrollable urge to flee the carriage and chance his way on foot.

Ben’s anxiousness only increased when he noticed Lord Gervaise Devan dismounting his own carriage as they drew close to the cathedral doors. It only made sense—Bishop Alcinus Devan was his uncle. Seeing his proud demeanor and erect carriage brought back the night of the disastrous ball. Ben’s urge to vomit increased tenfold.

Matthew opened the door and stood by the carriage, allowing Armitage to step out and extend his hand to his mother. She took it, expression cold, stepping down from the carriage in her dainty, blood-stained shoes. Ben leapt down after her.

“Lord Organa.”

Ben started, guilty. He had hoped Devan might pass him over without recognizing him, or at the very least not speaking. “Lord Devan.” He greeted the other lord with his best attempt at a smile, and shook his hand. “A pleasure to see you here.”

Armitage had halted in his steps and Ben could feel his intense gaze on his back, a strange buzzing sensation.

“Lord Armitage,” Devan said, rather coolly, taking Ben’s arm as if to turn him away. “Lady Madeline. I see you are well.”

“Likewise,” Armitage said with the same coldness. “I don’t suppose you would care to unhand Lord Organa. He is, after all, under my care.”

“I mean him no harm,” Devan said, and there was a lingering meaningfulness to this reply that set Armitage’s jaw clenching. “Please, escort the lady to the cathedral. Lord Organa and I won’t be but a moment.”

Armitage tipped his chin upwards and swept away, arm in arm with Madeline.

“Benjamin,” he said, voice low, leaning in slightly as if in the strictest confidence. “We have little time—are you well?”

Ben blinked, thrown. He had expected accusations, intimations that Devan  _ knew,  _ knew of his depravity, expected threats or curses. “Am I well?”

“Ben, when I spoke of Lord Armitage’s reputation, it was not in jest. If you have not yet witnessed his cruelty, you soon will. He is a willful, unkind man, and he spreads nothing but discord and despair and hatred among men. Ben please—please. Heed my words. You are a good man caught in things that do not concern you. Already Armitage spreads his dominion over the land—do not let yourself become complicit in his crimes—”

Ben’s heart fluttered in his chest, suddenly lightheaded. “Poyrew paid Armitage’s assassination,” he said, the words like cotton in his mouth. “Attacked his lands. Surely Armitage was owed self-defense.”

Devan’s stormy eye darkened, his lined mouth thinning, and for a moment Ben was sure he would turn away or strike him. “Is that what he told you?”

“I witnessed it all with my own eyes,” Ben shot back, ire rising to match the panicked flutter in his chest. “Armitage has shown me great kindness. If you question his word, why should I trust yours over his?”

“He is the devil!” Devan hissed, and Ben fought the urge to recoil or strike out. “There is no time now to argue—the sermon begins shortly. Night after tomorrow, find some excuse to leave the city walls come nightfall. I will send a man to bring you to a place where we can speak freely. He will be holding two lanterns, tell him you are looking for a white rabbit that had passed you by.”

Before Ben could open his mouth to protest he caught a flash of copper over Devan’s shoulder. “I bid you farewell, my lord,” he said quickly, disentangling himself just as Armitage rounded the corner, expression stormy.

“Please, Ben,” Devan said lowly. His voice was less gruff than pleading, as if Ben were his own recalcitrant flesh and blood. “If you hold my word in any esteem at all, please hear them before setting your mind against them.”

Ben hurried away, feeling weak. His knees threatened to give way beneath him; he was grateful when Armitage took his arm and guided him towards the cathedral.

  
  


 

“Ben, darling. You look realms away.” Armitage’s brow furrowed in what appeared to be genuine concern. “Is this little exercise boring you?”

For the past few hours Armitage had ordered Ben on all fours on the bed, commanding him not to spill a drop of the goblet of wine he’d balanced on Ben’s back. Occasionally, as if at whims, he had his way with Ben, pleasuring and punishing him at alternate measures. Normally this would be an intoxicating, torturous experience, but Ben felt as if it were happening to another body, one he could only vaguely touch.

It had been two days since Mass, and Ben had worn himself out from torture by racking himself and his memory, interrogating and beating himself for the truth. The sun was setting, blanketing the landscape in dusty pinks—time was upon him. Every flash of the candle at the window was twin lanterns, the other constant the light from Lady Madeline’s window at the opposite tower, before which she paced, back and forth, for hours and hours at a time. She had left the previous morning, though she had spurned the Christmas feast and refused to leave her chambers before her departure. Ben suspected he was going quite mad.

“Do you trust me?” Ben asked.

Armitage blinked, caught truly unawares. His shirtsleeves were loose around his shoulders; it was unusually warm for the time of year. “What a silly question,” he said at last, looking almost faintly amused. “What use have we for trust?”

Ben lowered his eyes, heart sinking. “So you don’t.”

“I suppose I do, in a way,” Armitage said, thoughtful. “Do you trust me?”

Ben bit at his lip. “Of course.”

“Well, there you have it.” Armitage kissed him sweetly, inadvertently knocking a book off the bedside table. It fell to the floor with a great  _ thump!  _ and Ben startled so violently the goblet toppled off his back.

“Oh, you little brute,” Armitage snapped, snatching up the goblet and mopping at the wine-soaked bedding with Ben’s shirt. “I ought to deal you a terrible punishment, but in this state I hardly think you’ll notice.”

“I’ll go to my chambers,” Ben blurted out. “I’m—Christ’s Advent weighs on me greatly still, I must contemplate—“

Armitage’s eyes rolled towards the rich gold and crimson tapestry above them. “Begone, then. I have little stomach for your endless Catholic navel-gazing.”

Ben dressed quickly and returned to his chambers, head aching. Outside his window, it had begun to rain—thunder, even. Through the downpour he could see the light flickering in Lady Madeline’s tower.

Ben threw open the chest at his bed, fumbling for his leather flail. He pulled off his shirt, knelt—the pain, inflicted by his own hand, sharpened his mind even as the blows pulled open barely-healed welts from the previous night.

Armitage could have lied about the assassin. Hired the man himself, then had him tortured until he was pliable, then sent Ben up to fetch water while he induced the man to lie for his freedom, then had the sellsword killed before he could tell the tale. He could have, remotely, even hired mercenaries to pose as Poyrew’s men in the village attack. Whether he actually had done this remained a mystery, and a desperate one at that.

It would be a cruel tactic, but Ben could not deny that Armitage was as cruel as Ben was beastly. And it was that same beastly nature he’d turned on Poyrew and his family, and countless other men in his stint as conquering champion. So good it had felt, unquestioning violence, that he had willed his mind silent. But now guilt buzzed at him like a haze of horseflies, the urge to confess pulling at him like a physical hook in his chest.

_ I did it. I did it all. Mea culpa. _

He threw on his clothes, hardly caring how they looked, slinging his wolf coat over his shoulders and stepping hastily into his boots. His lashes were agony but he hurried on, navigating the dark corridors by the flashes of lightning and crashing thunder alone. Through the windows he could see Armitage’s study was lit, suggesting that he would be up all night with his books.

He did not know what he would say to Devan. He could throw himself at the Knight’s feet and beg for mercy, or confess all his awful deeds. He could deny it all, accuse him of lying. He could slay him there and return to Armitage with his head. He did not want to know what Devan would say, for fear it was the truth. He did not want to know what he would do, for fear of himself.

By the time he’d reached the grand stairs, his whole body trembled as if he were approaching Judgment Day. Thunder cracked overhead like the wrath of God himself, lightning forking across the sky and sizzling the stone floors with harsh illumination, the dazzling fury of angels.

A weight hit Ben’s side and he looked down to see Techie clinging to his arm, trembling furiously. His hands looked bitten and bleeding; by the pallor of his skin and the clawing desperation with which he clung to Ben suggested he had suffered some mortal fright.

“B-B-B-Ben,” he gasped, the cloth about his unseeing eyes turned up to Ben in place of a wild gaze. “P-P-please h-h-help me B-B-B—I’m—its, its, uh, its uh, its c-coming f-for me  _ p-p-please— _ d-don’t let it t-take me—p-please B-B-B I’m uh, uh, I’m b-b-egging you—“

“I’ll get Mary,” Ben said quickly, attempting to pull away from the death grip on his arm. Techie’s terror held incredible strength—Ben could no more be free of him than pull off his own arm. “Just wait here—“

“ _ No! _ ” It was almost a shriek. “A-A-Arm-Armitage. G-Get A-Arm-Arm—“

Ben glanced around, desperate. No servants were around, no soul but himself and Techie. Should he cry out for help, or attempt to comfort him himself? Carry the trembling wreck up the stairs to Armitage as he asked?

Ben glanced out the windows; through the torrential downpour, two twin lights could still be made out from the window.

“Declan!”

Techie cried out in terror; Ben whirled about to see Armitage flying down the steps, in his haste dressed without his robe over his nightclothes.

He thrust the lamp into Ben’s hand, gathering his madly shaking brother into his arms. “Declan, Declan, it’s me. Shh, shh, it’s me. You’re safe now. Brother’s here, now.”

Techie screamed, striking out seemingly at random. His elbow met Armitage’s chin, bloodying his lip, his feet kicking at Armitage’s shins. “N-no—no p-please—I d-don’t want it, I’ll—I’ll b-b-ehave, p-please—n-not ag-again—Arm-Arm-Armitage—“

“Storms upset him terribly,” Armitage said quickly to Ben, who was backing away, fearing possession. “Declan, listen to me. It is Armitage. You’re safe, the storm will pass us. You’re safe here with me. We’ll get you to a nice warm bed, and I’ll read to you about the donkey, and I won’t leave you until it’s over.“

Techie froze, as if cornered by some sleek, many-toothed predator. “Arm-Arm-A—she’s here, she’s here, she’s—“

“Declan,” Armitage said sharply. “You’re only making this worse. Quiet down, and the storm will pass. I promise.”

Techie let out a wail of despair. “P-promise me Arm-Armitage, p-promise me you won’t let—p-promise—“

“I promise,” Armitage said, with something nearing gentleness. He pushed Techie’s wild, unwashed hair from his face, running a soothing hand over his quaking shoulders. “Now are you ready to go upstairs?”

Techie shook his head wildly. “No—no no not there, t-that’s the f-first p-place to—first to look—“

“Ben, help me with him. He’s beside himself, we’ll need to carry him.” When Ben did not comply, Armitage looked at him sharply. “Do you have some other pressing matter to attend?”

Ben swallowed, eyes darting traitorously towards the lights at the window. “There’s something wrong with him.”

Armitage gave a furious scowl. “He’s afraid of thunder, you great idiot. I’m frankly amazed I haven’t had to coax you out from under your bed crying—that does seem to be your singular specialty. Now get over here and help me carry him to bed, it’ll help calm him.”

As if under a trance, Ben moved forward slowly to obey, taking Techie’s arm. He whimpered and clung even closer to his brother, burying his head in Armitage’s shoulder and muttering indecipherable words, fast and breathy, as if the nonsense was some kind of pagan curse that would protect him from harm.

“My lord!” It was Jonathan, looking pale, ragged, and frantic. “A carriage approaches—but seconds upon us—“

“A carriage?” Armitage looked as confused as he was angry. “At this time of night, in this weather? Who is it?”

“My lord—it’s—“

The great castle doors cracked open with a great, thunderous  _ BANG.  _ Lightning arced overhead; Techie screamed as if driven through by swords and arrows. Armitage paled under the harsh light as if suddenly drained of blood.

“Mama,” he breathed. “Mama, what are you—what are you doing here?”

Lady Madeline stood in the doorway, tall and immoveable as a glacier. Her soaked hair tumbled down around her shoulders, a dark, heavy cloak shielding her from the rain. She held a torch in one hand; a silvery blade glittered in the other.

“Why, I would have thought my stated intention obvious,” she said, in the same cold, measured tones she had ordered tea from servants. “I said I would hunt out your little infestation. Your little blind mouse.”

Her eyes turned to Techie, who had completely frozen as if turned to stone by witchcraft. “I have found it. Now it must die.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So tag warnings as usual for general mindfuckery, manipulation, emotional and physical abuse, gaslighting, gore, pretty explicit and disturbing descriptions of violence, cliffhangers, implied CSA (depending on your reading but yall are pretty close readers so I wanna be safer than sorry), oh yeah uh under-negotiated...everything? Honestly tagging this shit is really fucking hard, I'm sorry if I miss anything? If you notice something PLEASE feel free to lemme know!

**Author's Note:**

> AU belongs to [first-disorder](http://first-disorder.tumblr.com) and me. You can find me on tumblr [here](http://firstordershitposting.tumblr.com)!


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